MODERN     STANDARD    DRAMA, 

No.  LXXVII. 


GUY  MANNERING; 

Jl  OR  THE 

GIPSEY'S  PKOPHECY. 

21  SUnsical  $ lag 

IN      THREE     ACTS. 

BY    DANIEL    TERRY. 

ALSO   THE   STAGE    BUSINESS,    CASTS    OF   CHARACTERS, 
COSTUMES,  RELATIVE  POSITIONS,  ETC. 


NEW  YORK  : 
WM.  TAYLOR  &  CO. 

(S.  FRENCH.  GENERAL  AGENT,) 

151  Nassau-Street,  corner  of  Spruce. 


»•-• 


EDITORIAL    INTRODUCTION. 

The  Musical  Play  of  "  Gur  Mannering,  or  The  Gipsey's 
Prophecy, "  was  dramatized  by  Daniel  Terry,  the  popular  au- 
tbft  and  actor,  from  the  novel  of  that  name,  by  Sir  Walter 
Scmt,  and  was  first  produced  at  the  Theatre  Royal,  Co  vent 
Garden,  London,  in  the  spring  of  1816  ;  it  was  eminently  suc- 
cessful, and  still  continues  popular  with  the  theatrical  public 
on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic. 

We  are  not  in  favor  of  a  class  of  compositions,  or  adaptations, 
hostile,  as  we  believe,  to  the  best  interests  of  the  Drama;  still, 
we  must  admit  that  Mr.  Terry  has  admirably  arranged  "  Guy 
Mannering"  for  the  stage  ;  the  new  matter  harmonizes  and 
forms  a  piece  with  the  old,  and  it  requires  an  intimate  knowledge 
of  the  original,  to  distinguish  between  them. 

Terry  was  an  intimate  and  valued  friend  of  the,  then,  "great 
Unknown,''  with  whont  he  was  in  constant  correspondence  ; 
and  we  may  infer,  that  the  novelist  himself  had  some  hand  in 
the  present  adaptation.  Lockhart,  in  his  life  of  Scott,  observes 
"what  share  the  novelist  himself  had  in  the  first  specimen  of 
what  he  called  "  Terry-fying,"  I  cannot  exactly  say ;  but 
his  correspondence  shows  that  the  pretty  song  of  the  Lullaby 
was  not  his  only  contribution  to  it,  and  I  imagine  that  he  had 
taken  the  trouble  to  modify  the  plot,  and  re-arrange  for  stage 
purposes  a  considerable  part  of  the  original  dialogue."  It  is 
curious  to  notice  in  the  correspondence  with  Terry,  Sir  W. 
Scott's  anxiety,  and  suggestions,  to  avoid  the  risk  of  discovery, 
through  the  introduction  of  the  song  alluded  to  :  which  had  in 
the  mean  time  been  communicated  to  Alexander  Campbell,  edi- 
tor of  Albyn's  Anthology.  Sir  W.  Scott  did  not  avow  himself 
as  the  author  of  the  Waverly  novels  until  February.  1827  ;  and 
Terry  was  one  of  the  twenty  of  his  friends,  to  whom  the  se- 
cret had  been  confided,  and  by  whom  it  had  been  so  carefully 
guardeu. 


iv  EDITORIAL    INTRODUCTION. 

It  would  be  unjust  to  a  great  living  Musician,  not  to  admit 
that  the  exquisite  Music  of  Sir  H.  R.  Bishop,  largely  contri- 
buted to  the  success  of  Guy  Mannering  on  its  first  production  on 
the  stage.  The  "  Fox  jumped  over  the  parson's  gate,"  and  the 
"Chough  and  Crow"  may  be  cited  as  admiiable  specimens  of 
classic  English  music.  » 

The  play  of  Guy  Mannering  has  latterly  excited  renewed 
interest,  from  Miss  Charlotte  Cushman's  performance  ofthe 
character  of  Meg  Merrilles.  It  is  notour  province  to  criticis^pmt 
we  cannot  withhold  a  passing  notice  of  a  performance  so  uni- 
que, as  almost  to  put  criticism  at  defiance  ; — it  is  as  vigorous  in 
conception,  as  it  is  startling,  nay,  electrical  in  execution;  it 
stands  "  alone,"  and  may  defy  competition.  It  has  been 
said— we  think  hypercritically— that  the  Meg  Merrilles  of  Miss 
Cushman,  great  as  it  is  admitted  to  be,  is  not  that  ot  Sir  W. 
Scott ; — if  it  is  her  own  creation,  the  greater  the  genius  of  the 
Artist : — from  her  first  entrance  from  the  gipsey  tent,  to  the  last 
death  throe,  the  character  is  never  for  a  moment  lost  sight 
of;  appearance,  dress,  gait,  gesture,  intonnation  of  the  voice 
ail  are  in  perfect  keeping;  it  standsout  like  Spagnoletto's  figures, 
in  bold  broad  lights  and  shadows,  and  with  a  power  of  life  and 
truth,  that  "  only  itself  can  be  its  parallel."  The  crowds 
who  thronged  the  Theatres  in  England,  night  after  night,  to 
witness  this  wonderful  exhibition  of  histrionic  art ;  and  the  en- 
thusiasm, which  is  now  crowding  the  American  Theatres,  are 
but  just  tributes  to  the  genius  of  this  highly  gifted  lady. 

H.  L. 


CAST     OF     CHARACTERS. 

'o!  cast. 

Covent  Garden,  1816.  Broadway,  1849. 

Colonel   Mannering -Mr    Abbott.  Mr.  Fredericks. 

Henry    Bertram "     Durusctt.  •  Jordon 

Dvminio   Sampson "     Liston.  "     W.  B.  Chapman. 

Dandie  Dinmogt ■'     Emery.  "     E.  Shaw. 

Dirk  Hatteraick "     Comer.  "     Harris. 

Bailie  Mucklethrift "     L     Russell.  ''     Hind. 

Gilbert  Glossin "    Blanchard.  "    Thompson. 

Gah-iel.  ~l  "    Tinney.  "     Whiting. 

Sebastian.         >  Gipsies  ...     "     Jeffries.  "     P.  C.  Byrne. 

Franco,  a  boy,  )  Master  Parsloe.  Miss  Wallis. 

Jack  Tobos.  (Ostler  to  Mrs.  AT„    —  . AT„    c+„„,+ 

Mrs.  M'Candlish.) .  .  .   ^r-  Tobey-  Mr    Stuart" 

P„_„„  $  Mr.  North.  $  Mr.  Lyster. 

Fa™ers> \     -     Tinney.  \    «    Milot.; 

Sergeant Mr.  King 

Julia   Mannering Miss  Mathews.  Miss  K.  Horn. 

Lucy  Bertram "     Stephens.  Mrs.  G.  Loder 

Meg  Mernlies Mrs.  Yates.  Miss  C.  Cushman. 

Mrs.  M'Candlish ••      Davenport.  "      Carman 

Flora Miss  Green  Mrs.  A.  Knight 

Gipsies,    Soldiers,    Peasants,    $c. 
Scene — Scotland. 

COSTUMES- 
COLONEL  MANNERING.— Blue  military  undress  coat,  white   waistcoat,  pan 
taloons.  and  Hessian  boots. 

HENRY  BERTRAM.-    Ibid. 

DANDIE  DINMONT. — Blue  plush  coat,  scarlet  plush  waistcoat,  leather  breeches 
drab  coloured  great  coat,  check  shirt.  &c 

DIRK  HATTERAICK.— Brown  (Dutch)  jacket  and  breeches.  checK  shirt.  &c. 

GILBERT  GLOSSIN.— Black  coat  and  waistcoat,  leather  breeches  and  boots. 

BAILIE  MUCKLETHRIFT.— Sr.it   of  old  fashioned  black. 

GABRIEL. — Brown  country  coat  and  breeches,  and  plaid  waistcoat. 

SERGF.ANT  MACRAE— Highland  soldiers  dress. 

SFBASTIAN.— Country  coat,  red  waistcoat,  and  buff  breeches. 

FARMERS.— Country  coats.  Stc. 

DOMINIE  SAMPSON.—  Fr,  st  dress  —Old  black  coat  and  waistcoat,  darned  and 
patched,  and  hue  serge  breeches  Second  dress-  Similar,  but  in  better  quality, 
>vith  a  Urge  round  hat. 

LUCY  BERTRAM.— Black  crape  dress. 

JULIA  MANNERING. — White  satin  pelisse,  and  muslin  dress,  trimmed  with 
;md  flowers. 

MEG  MERRILIES.— Brown  cloth  petticoat  and  bodJ|  torn  old  red  cloak,  torn 
pieces  of  plaid,  and  old  russet  sandals 

L.— Plaid  bodice,  n.uslin  petticoat,  and  apron  trimmed. 

I    vNULISH.  —  Plaid  go™,  blue  quilted  petticoat,  white  apron,  handker- 
chief and  cap. 

EXITS  AND  ENTRANCES. 
R,  means  Right;   L.    Left;    R.  I).  Right  Door;   L.  D.   Left  Door; 
S.  E.  Second  Entrance ;   U.  E.  Upper  Entrance ;   M.  D.  Middle  Door. 


RELATIVE  POSITIONS. 
R.  means  Right;  L.  Left;   C.  Centre;    R.  C.  Right  of  Centre;   L.   C 
Left  of  Centre. 

V Passages  marked  with  Inverted  Commas  are  usually  omitted  in  the 
representation. 


GUY    MANNERING 


ACT  I. 

Scene  I. — Mrs.  M'Candlish's  Inn. — Several  Farmers 
and  others,  at  one  table  c. — Drinking,  fyc. — Mrs. 
M'Candlish  the  Landlady,  and  Bailie  Mucklethrift, 
at  another  i,.  at  Tea. — A  large  comfortable  fire,  w.  e.  r. 
Sfc. —  The  Curtain  rises,  to  the  symphony  of  the  follow' 
ing 

GLEE. 

The  winds  whistle  cold, 

And  the  stars  glimmer  red, 
The  flocks  are  in  fold, 

And  the  cattle  in  shed. 
When  the  hoar  frost  was  chill 
Upon  moorland  and  hill, 

And  was  fringing  the  forest-bough, 
Our  fathers  would  trowl 
The  bonny  brown  bowl, 

And  so  will  we  do  now, 

Jolly  hearts  ! 
And  so  will  we  do  now ! 
Gaffer  Winter  may  seize 
Upon  milk  in  the  pail  ; 
'Twill  be  long  ere  he  freeze 

The  bold  brandy  and  ale  ! 
For  our  fathers  sobold, 
They  laugh'd  at  the  cold, 

When  Boreas  was  bending  his  brow  » 
For  they  quaff  d  mighty  ale. 
And  they  told  a  blith  tale, 

And  so  will  we  do  now, 
Jolly  hearts ! 
And  so  will  we  do  now  ! 

Mrs.  MCan.  A  merry,  social  glee,  and  well  sung,  good 
neighbours. 

1st.  Far.  Then,  here's  your  good  health,  landlady,  in 
the  parting  glass!  for  we  must  away  up  to  West-Green 
.to-night,  to  be  ready  for  the  fair  on  Monday. 


8  GUY    MAXNF.RING.  [Act  I. 


V 


Mrs.  MCan.  Well  then,  good  evening,  and  a  good 
sale  to  you,  farmer. — [Fanner  crosses  to  l.J — I  wonder  I 
haven't  seen  your  old  friend  Andrew  Dinmont  on  his  way 
there;  he  generally  leaves  his  little  horse,  Dumpling, 
here  at  fair  time. 

2d.   Far.   You'll    see    him,   never    fear ;  there'd   be    no 
cattle  worth   the    handling,  and    no  cudgelling    worth  a 
broken   head,  without  Dandie    Dinmont  at    the  fair!  but 
come  along,  neighbours,  the  evening  wears,  and  we  must^ 
be  jogging; — good  night  ty'e  mistress.  Ka/^&C*^*'   / 

Mrs.  MCan.  (l.)  He's  as  kind  a  heart,  and  as  strong 
an  arm,  that  Dinmont,  as  any  for  forty  miles  round  the 
country. 

Bailie,  (r.)  And  of  good  worldly  substance,  they  say, 
Mrs.  M'Candish,  considering  the  instability  of  human 
affairs. 

Mrs.  jW  Can.  He's  e'en  as  good  as  yourself,  Bailie  ; 
and  would  I  were  no  worse  ;  but  I  need  not  complain,  for 
who  would  have  thought,  when  I  was  housekeeper  at 
Ellangowan  castle,  and  Sir  Godfrey  Bertram  member  for 
the  county,  that  I  should  sit  here  this  night,  landlady  of  the 
Gorden  Arms  in  Kippletringan,  expecting  his  only  child 
to  come  to  this  poor  house  of  mine,  to  pay  off  all  his  ser- 
vants, without  knowing,  poor  girl !  where  she's  to  go 
next. 

Bailie.  Aye,  aye  !  the  instability  of  human  concerns  : 
and  who  would  have  thought  that  Gibbie  Glossin,  the 
attorney,  (whom  I,  Robbin  Mucklethrift,  the  hard-ware 
man,  remember  to  have  refused  credit  for  a  sixpenny  pen- 
knife,) should  have  been  giving  a  grand  dinner  and  claret, 
in  your  house  this  very  day,  on  purchasing  the  estate  of 
his  aforesaid  benefactor,  and  turning  that  only  child  out  of 
doors  ;  and  he'll  pay  the  bill,  ready  money,  doubtless,  Mrs. 
M'Candish.  [Goes  up  the  Stage. 

Mrs.  M'Can.  That  he  does,  or  the  devil  a  drop  of  wine 
shall  go  down  his  throat  in  this  house.  I  wish  I  had  the 
tying  a  halt — [Bell  rings  violently.] — but,  there,  I  must  hm-. 
waiting  on  them: — they'll  be  wanting  another  magnum  x 
of  claret! — [Takes  up  a  large  bottle  and  is  going,  but 
stops.] — No,  take  it  you,  Grizzy,  and  say  I  am  gone  to 
bed. — [Grizzy  crosses  and  exit,  r.] — I  have  not  the  heart 
to  look  at  them,  making  merry  on  the  orphan's  substance !  / 


BOSKS  L]  GUY    MANNERIXG.  9 

the  property  that  should,  by  right,  belong  to  poor  Miss 
Bertram  !  If  it  were  not  that  we  victuallers  must  keep 
open  doors  to  all  cattle,  I'd  soon  clear  the  house  of  them. 
I  trust  Miss  Bertram  will  not  come  up  till  to-morrow  : — 
I  would  not  for  a  silver  pound  she  found  them  ranting 
and  rioting  here. — [Knocking  without  l.] — And  there  she 
is,  I  doubt. 

Enter  Jock  Jabos,  l. 

Well,  Jock,  is  it  Miss  Bertram  1 

Jock.  No  : — it's  only  a  single  rider,  mistress. 

Mrs.  M'Can.  A  single  rider  !  some  Manchester  lad  in 
the  cotton  line.      Well,  he  must  just  come  in  here. 
Enter  Colonel   Mannering,  l.  wrapped  up    in  a    great 
coat,   a     f'om  horseback,  ushered,    in  by  Jabos. 

Col.  Man.  Let  me  disturb  nobody,  landlady  !  your  house 
is  full,  I  understand  :   1  can   sit   very  well  here. 

[Crosses  over  to  the  fire. 

Mrs.  M'Can.  [Looking  at  him.]  Not  much  of  the  rider, 
either. 

Jock.  I'll  tell  you  what,  mistress:  he  has  got  as  pretty 
a  piece  of  horse-flesh  as  ever  stood  in  your  stable.  I'm  a 
judge,  I  reckon,  by  this  time,  and  one  may  always  know 
a  gentleman  by  his  horse.  [Exit  l. 

Col.  Man.  [Seating  himself  at  the  fire  r.]  It's  lucky  the 
old  inn  was  at  hand  to  shelter  me  in  this  sudden  storm  ; 
but  great  changes,  I  perceive,  have  taken  place  since  I 
saw  it.  I  wish  I  may  find  my  kind  friend  at  the  castle 
well :  but  he'll  scarcely  recollect  me,  I  dare  say.  Sixteen 
years  of  hard  military  service  in  India,  is  apt  to  rub  a 
young  man's  features  a  little  out  of  memory. 

Mrs.  M'Can.  I  beg  your  honour's  pardon.  Would 
your  honour  choose  any  refreshment  after  your  ride  ] 

Col.  Man.  If  you  please,  my  good  lady. 

Bailie.  Your  honour,  to  a  Manchester  rider!  Psh  ! — 
[Aside  to  Mrs.  M'Can,  after  eyeing  Colonel  Man.]  I'll  soon 
find  out  what  he  is.  Any  news  of  trade,  friend?  How's 
cotton  in  the  market,  now  1 

Col.   Man.  [Dryly.]   Cotton!   really,  sir,  I  do  not  know. 

Bailie.  Ay  you  don't  know.  Umph  ! — [Aside  to  Mrs. 
M'Can.] — He  s  in  the  hard-ware  line! — [To  Col.  Man.4 
You'll  be  dealing  in  the  steel  article,  I  fancy? 


10  GUY    MANNERING.  [Act  I. 

Col.  Man.  [Smiling.]  Steel !  why,  sir,  you  are  a  little 
nearer  the  mark. 

Bailie.  I  thought  so;  pray  do  you  Birmingham  folk 
find  the  patent  never-spilling  coal-scuttle  answer  in  the 
trade  1  They  go  off"  pretty  bobbishly  here,  when  they  are 
double  japanned:  I  sent  five  to  Ellangowan  castle  last 
week. 

Col.  Man.  Ellangowan  castle,  sir !  I  was  on  my  road 
thither. 

Bailie.  You  need  not  trouble  yourself,  sir ;  I  furnish 
them  with  all  articles  in  your  line,  at  the  lowest  Birming- 
ham prices. 

Col.   Man.  Sir! 

Bailie.  Yes,  sir,  in  the  hard-ware  line,  and  I  shall  suffer 
no  interlopers  ! — [Advancing  consequentially  to  Mannering. 

Col.  Mar:.  Sir,  you're  an  impertinent  little  fellow ! 
Perhaps  this  is  harder  ware  than  you  would  like  to  deal 
in.  [Advances  his  cane. 

Mrs.  M'Can.  [Interposing.]  Our  Bailie,  sir,  is  an  honest 
little  body,  but  he's  apt  to  mistake.  You  were  asking 
after  Ellangowan,  sir.  Was  it  the  old  family,  or  the 
present,  that  you  came  to  visit,  sir  % 

Col.  Man.  I  mean  Sir  Godfrey  Bertram  of  Ellan- 
gowan. 

Mrs.  M'Can.  Alas!  you  come  too  late  for  him,  poor 
gentleman ;  he  died  last  week,  sir,  under  sad  circumstan- 
ces. 

Col.  Man.  Sir  Godfrey  Bertram  dead  ! 

Bailie.  A  melancholy  instance  of  the  mutability  of 
worldly  matters ; — fallen  from  all  his  greatness,  and  twenty- 
seven  pounds,  six  shillings  and  eightpence  half-penny  in 
my  books. 

Col.  Man.   Dead  !   good  heaven,  I  owed  him  much. 

Bailie.  If  you  please  to  make  me  payment  of  the  afore- 
said sum,  sir,  I  will  give  you  a  receipt  for  so  much  of  your 
debt. 

Col.  Man.  He  has  no  child  ? 

Mrs.  M'Can.  An  only  daughter,  sir  ; — thought  to  be  an 
only  child. 

Bailie.  My  receipt  will  be  exactly  the  same  as  hers. 

Col.  Man.  Thought  to  be  an  only  child  ! — When  I  was 
in  India,  I  heard  he  had  a  son. 


Scene  I.]  GUY    MANNERING#  11 

Mrs.  Ml  Can.  Ah  !  well-a-day  !  you  heard  light,  sir, 
he  had  a  son  indeed  : — but,  oh,  me  ! — 

Bailie.  Now  don't  begin  whimpering. — [To  Col.  Man.] 
— She  lost  her  first  husband,  sir,  on  the  very  day  that  sou 
disappeared. 

Mrs.  IVrCan.  Aye  !  I  did  indeed  !  sixteen  years  ago. 

Bailie.  Well,  don't  cry  so  far  back;  he  was  a  revenue 
officer,  sir,  and  was  found  murdered  in  the  wood,  hard 
by  ; — by  smugglers  it  was  supposed,  headed  by  a  desper- 
ate fellow, — one  Dirk  Hatteraick, — half  devil,  half  Dutch- 
man. 

Mrs.  M'Can.  The  villain!  that  there  should  be  such 
lawless,  contraband  ruffians  suffered  in  a  christian  land. 

Col.  Man.  I  beg  your  pardon  madam  ;  but  may  I  ask 
what  connexion  the  misfortune  of  your  first  husband  had 
with  the  young  heir  of  Ellangowan  1 

Mrs.  M'Can.  Yes,  sure,  your  honour:  little  Harry 
Bertram,  then  a  beautiful  boy  five  years  old,  and  his  tutor, 
one  Dominie  Sampson,  as  they  call  him, — you'll  may  be 
remember  him,  sir,  if  you  remember  Ellangowan  long  ago. 

Col.   Man.  A  tall,  stiff,  silent  man,  is  he  not  1 

Bailie.  The  same,  sir,  half  crazed  with  his  learning, 
poor  silly  man,  and  knows  nothing  of  business. 

Mrs.  M'Can.  He's  a  little  absent  indeed,  poor  man  ;  but 
very  affectionate,  and  as  simple  as  any  child — Well,  sir, 
this  Dominie  Sampson  and  little  Henry  Bertram  were 
walking  in  the  wood,  and  by  came  my  poor  husband,  from 
looking  down  the  coast,  and  offered  to  give  the  boy  a  ride 
on  his  horse,  and  bring  him  back  to  dinner  to  the  castle  in 
an  hour  ;  but,  lack-a-day  !  lack-a-day  i  that  hour  never 
came,  for  poor  Duncan  was  found  weltering  in  his  blood  ! 

Col.  Man.  And  was  the  child  murdered  too  1 

Bailie.  That  no  man  can  tell,  sir,  for  he  was  never  found. 

Mrs.  M'Can.  There  was  an  oid  gipsey-woman,  (that 
then  lived  on  the  estate,  and  used  to  nurse  the  infant.)  waa 
suspected  of  stealing  him,  out  of  revenge  for  Sir  Grodfrey's 
transporting  one  of  her  sons  for  poaching. 

Col.  Man.  And  has  nothing  syer  been  heard  of  him  since? 

Mrs,  M'Can.  Nothing,  e'ir,  but  from  that  day,  the  old 
gentleman,  Sir  Godfrey  Bertram,  who  was  never  over  care- 
ful, became  worse  and  .vorse,  and  wasted  and  wanted, 
and  wanted  and  wasted,  and  trusted  and  trusted — 


12  GUY    MAKNER1NG.  [Act  I 

Bailie.   Till  lie  trusted  an  attorney. 

Mr*.  M'Can.  And  then,  sir,  his  distresses  broke  his 
heart,  and  he  died,  leaving  his  poor  daughter  pennyless  and 
unprotected,  on  the  wide  world  ! 

Bailie.  His  affairs  in  utter  disorder,  and  twentyseven 
pounds,  six  shillings  andeightpence  halfpenny,  in  my  books, 

Mrs.  M'Can.  But  the  worst  of  it,  Bailie,  was  the  ad- 
vantage it  gave  that  rogue  of  an  attorney. 

Col.  Man.  How  so,  pray  1 

Bailie.  Why,  sir,  if  the  boy  had  lived,  the  old  gentleman 
could  not  have  burthened  or  parted  with  an  acre,  it  was 
all  so  strictly  settled  on  heirs  male.  But  Glossin  contrived, 
thay  say,  while  his  mind  was  so  distressed,  to  wheedle  him 
out  of  some  rash  deed. 

Mrs.  M'Can.  But  it  wall  never  prosper ;  if  he  has 
cheated  the  helpless,  and  oppressed  the  fatherless,  he'll 
die,  (mark  my  words,  Bailie,)  a-good-for-nothing  beggar,  yet 

Bailie.  Why,  1  hope  the  young  heir  may  cast  up  ;  the 
mutability  of  human  affairs  is  great,  and  there's  news  of 
Dirk  Hatteraick's  running  a  cargo  on  these  shores  again, 
for  the  first  time  since  the  business;  if  so,  the  gipsey  wife, 
if  she's  alive,  won't  be  far  off,  1  dare  say. 

Mrs.  MV  Can.  The  murderous  wretches  !  if  I  catch  them, 
I'll  bring  them  to  justice,  if  I  sell  the  very  sign  over  my 
door. — [Noise  heard  without,  L.J — Gracious  heaven  !  I  hope 
that's  not  Miss  Bertram  come  just  now,  before  the  house 

is  clear  of  those  drunken and  if  it  is,  what  shall  I  do  ? 

— For  the  room's  close  to  the  only  one  J  have  to  shew  her 
into.  [Goes  and  listens. 

Bailie.  [To  Col.  Man.] — There  was  some  little  mis- 
take between  you  and  me,  sir :  you  said  you  dealt  in  steel, 
whereby  I  thought — 

Col.  Man.  [Sjniling.] — I  have  dealt  in  steel;  I  am  an 
officer  of  the  army,  retired  from  service. 

Bailie.  [ Aside. J — Retired  from  service  !  then  it  would 
not  be  worth  while  to  offer  him  my  shop-bill. 

Col.  Man.  And  am  just  arrived  from  India,  to  settle  in 
this  neighbourhood.  [Retires  up. 

Bailie.  [Aside.] — From  India,  and  settling  here  ! — that's 
a  different  story! — [The  Bailie  fumbles  in  his  pockets, — 
j) nils  out  a  spectacle-case,  larxt  pocket-book,  8fC.  (hiring 
which,  Enter  Jock  J  a  bos,  l. 


Scene  I]  GUY    MANNERING.  13 

Jock.  Mistress  !  mistress  !  There's  Miss  Bertram,  poor 
young  lady,  just  stepping  out  of  the  chaise,  wi'  mistress 
Flora,  and  Dominie  Sampson  buried  up  to  the  chin  in  old 
books  : — you  must  go  to  them  directly  ;  and,  mistress, 
who  do  you  think  yon  eentleman  is  ? 

Mrs.    M'Can.   Who,  Jock  1 

Jock.  The  great  Colonel  Mannering  ! 

Mrs.  M'Can.  What!  for  whom  the  Woodburne  estate 
was  bought  ? 

Jock.  The  very  same. 

Mrs.  M  Can.  and  Bailie.  No,  sure  ! 

Jock.  Ay,  as  sure  as  boots  are  not  brogues ; — he  was 
daily  expected,  you  know.  There's  his  servant,  just  rode 
in, — a  genteel  lad  like  myself,  and  a  good  judge  of  hor- 
ses ;  and  there's  his  sister,  and  the  devil  and  all,  following 
as  fast  as  they  can  : — there's  news  for  ye,  mistress  ! 

[Exit.  l. 

Mrs.  M'Can.  He  shall  see  Miss  Bertram  ;  he  may  be  a 
good  friend  to  the  poor  young  lady. — [To  Col.  Man.] — 
Your  honour  will  excuse  me,  I  must  attend  upon  Miss 
Bertram,  who  is  just  arrived,  sir. 

Col.  Man.  If  you  would  take  an  opportunity  of  infor- 
ming her,  a  friend  of  her  late  father  is  anxious  to  be  ac- 
quainted with  her,  you  will  greatly  oblige  me. 

Mrs.  M'Can.  That  will  I,  sir,  and  gladly;  for  I  am 
quite  fearful  of  that  Glossin's  riotous  party  up  stairs;  per- 
haps some  of  them  may  intrude  on  her,  and  your  presence 
may  be  a  protection  to  her.  I  am  but  a  poor  double  wi- 
dow, as  I  may  say,  sir  !  and  as  for  the  Dominie,  worthy 
soul !  he's  just  nobody  at  all  — Your  servant,  sir. 

[  Exit,  l. 

The  Bailie,  who  has  found  his  advertisement,  struts  up  to 
the  Colonel,  and  presents  it. 

Bailie,  (l.) — Colonel  Mannering  —  sir! — [f  on  your 
settlement  in  a  strange  land,  you  should  have  occasion  for 
fire-grates,  tongs,  pokers,  shovels,  coal-scuttles,  plain  or 
patent,  candlesticks,  snuifers,  extinguishers,  savealls,  &c. 
&c.  &c.  you  may  be  supplied  as  far  as  an  extensive  stock — 
Col.  Man.  (r.) — And  the  mutability  of  human  affairs — 
Bailie.  Tiue,  sir,  will  permit, — and  that  at  the  sign  of 
the  Three  Trouts  and  the  Frying-pan,  kept  by  your  hum- 


14  GUY    MAXNF.RING.  [Act  I. 

ble  servant,  Robin  Mucklethrift,  Ironmonger  and  Brazier, 
of  Ivippletringan  in  Scotland.  \ Exit,  l. 

Col.  Man.  The  honest  and  worshipful  magistrate,  I  per- 
ceive, doesn't  lose  sight  of  the  main  chance  in  the  uncer- 
tainty of  affairs.  But  yonder  goes  Miss  Bertram,— poor 
gi,-l  f_ho\v  pale  and  melancholy,  and  yet,  how  engaging  ! 
—  Well,  the  daughter  of  my  earliest,  and  best  friend  shall 
not  be  left  without  a  protector  to  shield  her  sorrows  from 
injustice  and  oppression.  [Exit,  R. 

Scene    II. — Another  Room   in  the  Inn,  large  doors  in  the 
Back.  c. — Enter  Lucy  Bertram,  l. 

AIR. — Miss  Bertram. 

Ye  dear  paternal  scenes,  farewell ! 

The  home  where  early  fortune  smil'd  ! 
No  longer  there  must  Lucy  dwell : — 
Of  fortune  robb'd,  from  home  exil'd, 

A  wretched  orphan  child 
Now  weeps  her  last  farewell ; 
Farewell  ! 

Tho'  doom'd  to  wrander  far  aud  wide, 

A  maiden  friendless,  desolate, 
With  Heaven  my  innocence  to  guide, 
I  fear  not,  tho'  I  mourn  my  fate ; 

But  all  that  it  ordains  await. 
And  weep  my  last  farewell ! 
Farewell ! 

Enter   Mrs.  M'Candlish,   Flora,    Jock  and  Grizzy,  l. 

bringing  in  boxes,  and  various  light  luggage. 

Mrs.  M 'Can.  Dear  Miss  Bertram,  I  ask  pardon; — I 
never  was  so  sorry  in  my  life ; — my  house  quite  full,  and 
a  noisy  party  of  gentlemen  in  the  best  room.  I  have  not 
another  place  but  this  to  show  your  ladyship  into,  and  this 
is  but  a  public  sort  of  a  room  neither  ;  and  I  didn't  expect 
your  ladyship  till  to-morrow. 

Mimm  B.  Do  not  disturb  yourself.  I  shall  be  but  a  few 
minutes  in  any  one's  way.  1  will  but  dismiss  my  servants, 
and  retire  to  my  bed-room. 

Mrs.  M* Can.  And  here  is  Dominie  Sampson,  your  lady- 
ship'* old  tutor,  stalking  up  stairs  out  of  your  carriage. 

M'imm  B.  Do  not  suffer  your  people,  my  good  dame,  to 
exercise  their  merriment  at  the  expense  of  that  worthy 
man. 


Scene  II.]  GUY    MANNEriNg.  15 

Mrs.  M'  Can..  Not  for  the  world,  my  dear  lady. 
Miss  B.  His  person,  his  retired  habits,  and  great  ab- 
sence of  mind,  are  at  times,  I  own,  calculated  to  excite 
somewhat  more  than  a  smile  ;  but,  when  the  impulse  of 
his  excellent  heart  breaks  forth,  he  rather  forces  a  tear 
from  the  eye  of  sensibility,  than  a  laugh  from  the  lungs  of 
ribaldry. 

Mrs.  M'Can.  Very  true,   indeed.     But  1  beg  pardon, 
Miss  Betram  ;  there  is  a  stranger,  a  gentleman  now  in  the 
house,  a  particular  friend,   he  says,  of  my  late  honoured 
master,  who  wishes  to  be  permitted  to  speak  with  you. 
Miss  B.  If  he  has  business,  I  suppose  I  must  see  him. 
[She  retires,  Mrs.  M  Candlish  turns  to  go  out. 
[Enter  Dominie  Sampson,  l.  loith  an  immensely  large 
book  under  his  arm,  in  old-fashioned  binding,  and 
brass    clasps,    his    appearance    puritanical,   ragged 
black  clothes,  blue  worsted  stockings,  pewter-headed 
long  cane,  fyc,   fyc. 

Mrs,  MCan.  You  are  welcome  to  Kippletringan,  Mr. 
Sampson  ;  how  have  you  been  this  long  time  ] 

Samp.  Thanks,  worthy  madam.  And  how  is  your  hus- 
band, Mr.  Kennedy  ]  (Observes  her  surprise.)  Eh  !  Eh  ! 
out  upon  my  tongue,  he's  dead  !  I  meant,  honest  Provost 
M'Candlish. 

Flora,  (l.)  [Palling  him  by  the  sleeve.] — Why,  Dominie 
Sampson,  what  are  you  about? — he's  dead  too. — Would 
you  bring  forth  the  poor  woman's  husbands  alive,  one  after 
another  ? 

Samp.  Prodigious! — [He  is  confounded,  and,  silent,  and 
retires  up  the  stage. 

Flora.  Come,  Mistress  M'Candlish,  don't  take  it  amiss  ; 
the  poor  Dominie,  you  know,  is  apt  to  make  mistakes. 

Mrs.  MCan.  'Twas  kindly  meant  in  Mr.  Sampson, — 
[Crosses  to  L.] — 1  daresay;  but  both  my  dear  departed 
husbands  to  be  called  to  mind  at  once  !  Oh  !  'twas  too  dis- 
tressing. 

Flora.    'Twas   indeed  !   too    much    for  any    woman  to 

bear.  [Exit  Mrs.  M'Candlish,  l. 

[The  Dominie  by  this  time  has  opened  his  great  book  : 

and  sat  down  to   read  upon  some  band-boxes,   which 

give  way  under  him. 


16  GUV    MANNERING.  [Act  1. 

Flora.  Oh  ;  my  best  bonnet.  I  had  rather  have  had 
twenty  husbands  at  once,  than  had  it  spoiled. 

Samp.  Prodigious  !   "  Ubi  lapsus  ?    Quid  feci  f" 

Flora.  Feccy  !  What's  your  Fecey  to  my  bonnet !  your 
head  is  too  learned  for  the  rest  of  your  body,  Mr.  Samp- 
son, and  leads  it  into  sad  errors.  What  do  you  do  with 
that  great  lumbering  book  now  1 

Samp.  Josephus'  History,  light  reading,  Mistress  Flora, 
for  travellers. 

Miss  B.  Flora. 

Flora.  Yes,  ma'am, — [Looking  at  Do?ninie.] — Mercy  on 
me? — [Goes  to  Miss  B. — Sampson  seats  himself  at  the  ta- 
ble, R. 

Miss  B.  Before  I  part  with  you,  my  good  girl,  I  must 
thank  you  for  the  affectionate  attention  you  have  shewn  to 
me  under  my  misfortunes.  In  this  purse  you  will  find  an 
additional  remembrance  of  your  kindness ;  it  is  indeed 
but  a  trifle,  yet — 

Flora.  [Half  crying.] — Don't  mention  it,  madam ;  I 
shall  never  find  such  another  mistress,  I'm  sure. 

Miss  B.  Not  so;  I  hope  you  will  find,  at  least,  as  kind 
a  mistress  in  the  English  young  lady,   Miss  Mannering. 

Flora.  I  hope  I  may,  ma'am;  but  I  shall  never  cease 
to  think  of  you  and  all  your  goodness. — And  poor  Mr. 
Sampson,  though  he  has  spoiled  my  bonnet,  poor  dear 
good  man  !   what  wil!  become  of  him  now  ? 

Miss  B.  That,  indeed,  is  a  grievous  question.  He  was 
the  tutor  of  my  youth,  my  dear  father's  last  and  only 
friend  :  it  is  like  a  second  separation  from  him  ;  but  it  is 
part  of  the  severity  of  my  fate,  and  must  be  endured, 
however  hard  the  struggle, — Mr.  Sampson  !  Mr.  Samp- 
son ! — [Sampso?i  is  by  this  time  deeply  involved  in  his  book, 
and-  does  not  hear  her. 

Flora.  [Looking  over  hi?n] — Come,  Mr.  Sampson,  leave 
Joo — heefus,  and  attend  to  Miss  Bertram. 

Samp.  My  honoured  young  lady  !  I  crave  pardon  ;  I 
was  oblivious. 

[Sampson  jumps  up  and  runs  with  awkward  eager- 
ness, snatches  up  the  suuffers,  and  snuffs  out  one  can- 
dle, then  another ;  and,  with  ludicrous  offiriousness, 
draws  the  table,  Sfr..,  §r.,  and  advances  toward. 
Miss  B. 


Scene  II.]  GUY    MANNERING.  17 

Flora.  Only  see  now  !  the  poor  dear  man  thinks  him- 
self in  the  parlour  at  Ellangowan,  trimming  the  candles 
for  mj  poor  old  master,  to  read  the  newspapers.  Oh  !  he 
has  a  rare   head  ! 

Miss  B.  You  give  yourself  too  much  trouble,  Mr. 
Sampson  :  it  was  not  that  I  wanted  of  you,  but  I  have  a 
small  account  to  settle  :  permit  me — [Puts  a  little  pocket- 
book  into  his  hand.] 

Sam]?.  [Looking  at  it.] — Truly  a  very  small  duode- 
cimo ! — [Opens  it,  takes  out  a  bank  note,  and  unfolds  it.] — 
It  is  for  the  sum  of  fifty  pounds. — Prodigious  !  Is  it  your 
pleasure  that  I  should  hie  me  forth  to  procure  little  notes 
in  exchange  for  the  same  1 

Miss  B.  No,  Mr.  Sampsom  ;  but,  in  my  present  cir- 
cumstances, alone,  almost  without  fortune,  it  is  impossible 
— I  have  not,  indeed,  the  means  to  support  a  household, 
and  that  note  is  your  own,  till  some  other  situation — 

Samp.  [Slow  at  first  to  comprehend,  becomes  agitated, 
and  speaks  with  great  feeling :] — No  !  Miss  Lucy,  never  ! 
if  your  father,  whom  I  served  and  loved  in  prosperity  and 
adversity,  should  rise  from  the  dead,  and  bid  me  leave 
you,  it  were  impossible  !  impossible  !  aud  that  note,  that 
note  befits  not  me,  young  lady.  [Returning  it.] 

Miss  B.  I  know  it  is  inadequate. — Yet  trifling  as  the 
recompense  is, — take  it  : — Oh  !  take  it,  I  beseech  you. 

Samp.  [Pushing  back  her  hand  gently.] — Perad venture, 
Miss  Lucy  you  are  too  proud  to  share  my  pittance,  and  I 
grow  wearisome  unto  you. 

Miss  B.  [Greatly  distressed.] — Oh  no  ; — you  are  my 
father's  old,  his  only  faithful  friend:  I  am  not  proud  ; 
heaven  knows,  I  have  no  reason  to  be  so. — But  what, 
what  can  we  do  1 

Samp.  I  can  teach  !  I  can  write  !  1  can  cypher !  I  can 
labour  !  Heaven  will  protect  !  Heaven  will  provide  al- 
ways :  if  our  wills  and  endeavours  be  not  wanting. — 
[Solemnly] — But  I  cannot, — cannot  be  severed  from  the 
child  of  my  affections,  the  daughter  of  my  dear,  dear  mas- 
ter— I  will  be  no  burden,  Miss  Lucy  ;  I  will  be,  Heaven 
willing,  an  aid  : — I — 

[Miss  Bertram  turns  away,  much  affected — Enter 
Col.  Mannering  and  Mrs.  M'Candlish,  unper- 
ceived  ;  at  the  back  of  the  scene,  l. 


18  GUV    HAN  N  BRING.  [Act  I. 

Flora.  [Interposing]  Dear  Mr.  Sampson!  you  only  dis- 
tiess  yourself,  and  Miss  Bertram; — you  had  better  take 
the 

Samp.  Woman !  No.  It  is  not  the  lucre, — it  is  not 
the  lucre  !  but  I  have  eaten  of  her  father's  loaf,  and  drank 
of  his  cup  for  thirty  years  and  upwards,  and  to  think  that 
I  would  leave  his  daughter,  and  leave  her  now  in  her  dis- 
tress and  dolour  : — No,  Lucy  Bertram. — I  crave  pardon, 
Miss  Bertram,  I  would  say — you  need  never  opine  it. 
You  would  not  have  put  a  favorite  dog  of  your  father's 
from  your  door,  and  will  you  use  me  worse  than  a  hound? 
Entreat  me  not  to  leave  thee,  I  beseech  thee  ;  for  while 
Abel  Sampson  liveth,  he  will  never,  never  be  separated 
from  thee. — [Rests  upon  the  table,  covering  his  face  with  his 
hands.]  [Exit  Flora,  l.] 

Mrs.  AT  Can.  [Aside,  to  Col.  Man.]  Good  lord,  was 
ever  any  thing  like  that,  from  one  who  scarcely  speaks 
three  words  on  any  ordinary  occasion  1  The  man's  in- 
spired ! 

Miss  B.  Well  then,  Mr.  Sampson,  we  will  not  separate  ! 
No,  even  though  our  joint  labors  should  procure  our 
daily  bread  ! 

Samp.  Gratias  !   Beatissime  !  [Rising.] 

Miss  B.  Alas  !  for  the  pride  of  birth  !  of  all  the  rich 
and  noble,  who  claimed  kindred  with  me  as  heiress  of 
that  house,  which  was  the  source  of  their  nobility  : — of 
all  who  shared  my  father's  favour  and  hospitality,  this 
being  alone  remains  attached  to  me,  who  was  the  too  fre- 
quent object  of  mockery  and  derision.  [A  burst  of  loud 
and  boisterous  mirth  is  heard,  behind  the  centre  doors.] 
What  noise  of  revelry  is  this  1 

Mrs.  M'Can,  Lord  preserve  us  !  they're  breaking  up, 
and,  perhaps,  some  of  'em  will  be   coming  thro'   here  ! 

M'Ss  B.  Gracious  Heaven  !  I  thought  I  heard  the  voice 
of  Glossin  among  them.  [Crosses  to  l. — Noise  again. 

Samp.  Mrs.  M'Candlish,  this  vicinity  to  hilarious 
drunkards  beseemeth  not  the  chamber  of  Miss  Lucy 
Bertram. 

[Noise  and  laughter  again. —  The  doors  jly  open. — 
Fnter  Glossin,  m.  d.  as  leaving  a  drunken  party, 
flushed  with  wine,  and  singing. 

Miss  B.   Glossin  himself !    What  am  I  doomed  to  suffer! 


Scene  II. j  GUY    MANNERING.  19 

Mm.  1ST  Can.  [Runs  up,  and  opposes  Glossitis  entrance.} 
You  really  can't  come  this  way,  sir.  It's  impossible  ! 
there's  a  lady  here,  Mr.  Glossin,  a  lady  who  would  not 
wish  to  see  you,  sir. 

Glos.  Egad  !  I  shall  indulge  no  such  caprice,  Mrs. 
M'Candlish.  I  have  settled  my  bill,  ma'am,  and  I  have 
a  right  to  walk  into  any  public  room  in  your  house, 
ma'am !  A  lady  not  wish  to  see  me  !  Egad  !  perhaps 
that's  a  civil  hint,  that  I  should  come  to  see  her.  [To 
Miss  Bertram,  who  is  on  L.j  I  beg  pardon,  madam,  if  I 
intrude — but  my  name  is  Glossin,  madam;  Gilbert  Glos- 
sin of  Ellangowan,  at  your  service. 

Miss  B.  [Raising  her  veil,  with  dignity. \  I  know  it,  too 
well,  sir,  and  how  you  became  so.  I  remember  my 
father's  death-bed,  and  who  embittered  his  last  moments, 
by  pressing  alleged  rights  ;  how  acquired,  I  leave  between 
heaven  and  your  own  conscience. 

Glos.  [Disconcerted.]  Stand  by  me,  good  claret.  [Aside.] 
Why,  Miss  Bertram,  there  are  things  which  may  have 
seemed  harsh  to  you,  doubtless,  or  to  any  body  ;  but  they 
flow  from  the  law,  madam  !  — from  the  law  ! 

Miss  B.  [Calmly.]  No,  sir,  not  from  the  law,  but  from 
such  as  pervert  it  to  their  own  sinister  purposes. 

Glos.  You  are  severe,  Miss  Bertram  ;  [Assuming  an 
air  of  confident  familiarity .] — but  I  trust  you  will  see  this 
matter  otherwise.  It  is  yet  in  your  power  to  be  mistress 
of  Ellangowan  Castle,  and  your  paternal  estate. — Had 
you  listened  to  my — 

Miss  B.  Sir,  I  understand  your  meaning,  and  will  save 
you  the  pain  of  speaking  it  more  explicitly.  When  you 
formerly  addressed  the  daughter  of  your  patron,  then  with 
all  the  advantages  of  high  birth  and  supposed  fortune,  I 
rejected  your  intrusion,  but  it  was  without  reproving  your 
audacity ;  but,  sir,  when  you  insult  the  poverty  of  the 
daughter  of  Ellangowan,  by  inviting  her  to  share  the 
spoils  of  her  own  house,  so  dishonestly  acquired,  she 
turns  from  you  with  loathing  and  contempt.      [Cross  to  r. 

Samp.  [In  centre.] — Prodigious  ! 
Glos.  [Fiercely.]  Come  come,  madam,  you  may  repent  this! 

Samp.  [  Who  has  by  degrees  become  agitated.,  comes 
fiercely  up.] — Avoid  thee,  thou  evil  one  ! — thou  hast  slain 
and  taken  possession — 


20  GUY    MANNERING.  [Act  I. 

Glos.  Come,  Mr.  Dominie  Sampson,  we'll  have  no 
preaching  here. 

Miss  B.  Mrs.  M'Candlish,  is  this  intrusion  on  an  unpro- 
tected female — 

Col.  Man.  [  Coming  suddenly  up  between  Glossin  and 
Mis:  B.\ — Not  unprotected,  Miss  Bertram,  while  the 
obliged  and  grateful  friend  of  Sir  Godfrey,  your  father, 
can  defend  you! — Sir,  your  company  is  unpleasant — your 
absence  desired.  There's  the  door,  and  you  will  oblige 
me  particularly  by  leaving  the  room  this  instant. 

Glos.  [In  a  bullying  tone.]  I  don't  know  who  you  are, 
sir  ; — but  I  know  the  law,  and  I  know  I  can  split  a  pistol 
bullet  against  a  pen-knife ;  and  I  shall  suffer  no  man  to 
use  such  d 'd  freedom  with  me. 

Col.  Man.  [Coming  close  up  to  him.] — Look  you,  Mr. 
Glossin  !  it  will  avail  you  nothing  here,  to  act  either  the 
rogue,  or  the  ruffian — the  bully,  or  the  attorney.  That 
you  do  not  know  me,  matters  not ; — I  know  you  ;  and  if 
you  do  not  instantly  descend  those  stairs,  by  the  heaven 
above  us,  you  shall  take  but  one  step  from  the  top  to  the 
bottom. 

Samp.  Prodigious  ! 

Glos.  I — I — I  don't  choose  to  brawl  here,  sir,  before  a 
lady  ; — but  you  shall  hear  more  of  me,  sir. 

[Retiring,  l. 

Col.  Man.  When  I  do,  sir,  I  shall  treat  the  information 
as  it  deserves. 

Mrs.  M 'Can.  This  way,  Mr.  Glossin,  if  you  please  !  I'll 
attend  you,  sir. — I  never  shewed  any  one  down  stairs  with 
greater  pleasure  in  all  my  life. 
7 h/jAc. C*^-^  [Exeunt  Mrs.  MCan.  and  Glossin,  l. 

Col.  Man.  I  beg  pardon,  Miss  Bertram — my  temper  is 
naturally  impetuous,  and  I  have  alarmed  you. — Hear  my 
apology  at  once  ; — though  personally  unknown  to  you, 
you,  perhaps,  have  heard  the  name  of  Mannering — Guy 
Mannering? 

Miss  B.  I  think  I  have  heard  my  father  mention  it,  sir; 
but  at  this  moment — 

Col.  Man.  Hear  me,  then  briefly:  the  son  of  an  ancient 
family,  I  came  at  fourteen  years  old,  with  my  widowed 
mother,  to  your  northern  capital.  We  were  distressed 
then,  as    you  are  now  ;   a  circumstance  drew  on   me  the 


SoeneII]  GUY    MANNER1NG  21 

notice  of  your  father — he  became  our  friend  and  comfort- 
er, and  his  interest  procured  me  a  military  appointment 
to  India,  where  I  have  been  successful  beyond  my  wishes  ! 
Paternal  estates,  also,  have  since  opened  to  me  in  Eng- 
land ;  but  my  attachment  was  here. — I  wrote  to  a  friend, 
to  purchase  property  in  this  neighbourhood,  and  learned, 
on  my  landing  in  Britain,  I  was  proprietor  of  Woodburne. 
Surmises  of  distress  in  Sir  Godfrey's  family  also  reached 
me,  and  I  hurried  down  to  pay  my  debt  of  gratitude.  I 
came,  alas!  too  late  to  offer  it  to  my  generous  benefac- 
tor ; — let  me  have  the  satisfaction  of  finding  I  may  be 
useful  to  his  daughter ! 

Samp.  I  have  scanned  him  well,  and  believe  him  to  be 
the  very  Guy  Mannering  who  was  the  inmate  of  your 
father's  house  some  sixteen  years  ago.  And  for  his  mili- 
tary propensities  I  will  avouch  ;  inasmuch  as  he  was  wont 
to  put  gunpowder  into  my  tobacco-pipe,  and  amuse  him- 
self with,  the  explosion  thereof. 

Miss  B.  Colonel  Mannering,  your  generosity,  and  still 
more,  your  affection  for  my  dear  father,  entitle  you  to  my 
kindest  thanks;  1  will  add,  my  confidence.  But  distress 
must  excuse  caution — and — 

Col.  Man.  I  will  presume  no  farther  ;  my  sister,  whose 
carriage  I  have  outrode  by  nearly  an  hour,  will  soon  be 
here  ;  and  to  her  intercession  I  shall  leave  my  suit. 

Samp.  I  do  myself  prefer  the  equestrian  to  the  vehicu- 
lar mode  of  conveyance  !  but,  to  say  sooth,  I  am  most  ac- 
customed unto  the  pedestrian. 

Miss  B.  Colonel  Mannering  then  will  excuse  me  for  the 
present,  nor  think  that  my  hesitation  arises  from  any  thing 
but  a  wish  that  the  acceptance  of  his  friendship  should 
be  as  proper  as  the  offer  is  kind. 

[Exit  R. 

Col.  Man.  Mr.  Sampson,  you  must  forgive  me  my  boy- 
ish tricks  :  I  did  not  know  the  worth  I  teased.  I  was 
then  a  spoiled  urchin — spoiled  by  your  patron  and  mine  ! 
but  fortune  has  cured  me. 

Samp.  And  fortune,  sir,  (as  the  Heathens  called  her — 
I  should  rather  say  providence,)  has  been  kinder  to  me  ; 
since,  for  thirty  years,  I  have  never  had  to  seek  a  home  or 
a  table,  until  this  present  moment  of  time. 

Col.  Man.  And  you  never  shall  have  to  seek  either,  Mr. 


22  GUY   MANNERING.  [Act  1 

Sampson,  if  you  will  accept  the  shelter  of  my  roof.    Your 
learning  and  patience  will  bring  a  blessing  with  them. 

Samp.  Of  learning,  sir,  it  doth  not  become  me  to 
speak  'I  albeit.  I  know  most  ancient  and  modern  tongues. 
And  of  patience  I  have  had  but  little  exercise,  since  five- 
and-thirty   years    ago,    when  I  was  boorded    for   twenty- 

gence  a  week  at  Luckie  Sourkail's,  in  the  High-street  of 
t.  Andrew's.  And  there,  tho'  I  hungered  somewhat,  I 
was  nothing  a-thirst,  being  near  the  principal  fountain  or 
pump  of  that  town  ;  so  that  I  might  drink  daily,  and  no 
one  say,  Sampson,  thou  exceedest  in  thy  potations.  But 
hath  your  honor  no  son,  whom  T  might  train  up  in  polite 
letters,  and  elegant  accomplishments,  as  a  requital  for  my 
daily  bread  ? 

Col.  Man.  I  have  only  a  sister,  Mr.  Sampson,  about 
ten  years  younger  than  myself; — how  far  she  may  profit 
by  your  instructions 

Samp.  She  may — she  will — she  shall — (Assuming  great 
consequence.) — T  will  teach  her  the  Hebrew  language,  or  I 
should  rather  say  the  Chaldaic,  since  your  Honour  is 
aware  that  the  generic  Hebrew  hath  been  lost  from  the 
time  the  Ten  Tribes  were  led  into  captivity  by  Tigleth 
Peleazer. 

Col  Man.  I  believe,  sir,  you  will  have  an  instant  oppor- 
tunity of  consulting  her  own  taste  upon  the  matter,  for 
here  she  comes  ! 

Enter  Miss  Mannering,  l.  dressed  in  a  fashionahle  travel- 
ing Habit. 

Miss  Man.  (Running  immediately  up  to  Col.  Man.)  My 
dear  brother,  how  fast  you  must  have  ridden. 

Col  Man.  Rather,  how  slowly  you  must  have  followed, 
my  dear  sister;  but  I  am  glad  you  are  here,  for  I  need 
your  assistance  most  particularly  and  immediately. 

Miss  Man.  Well,  well,  you  shall  have  it;  but  don't  be 
impatient !  I  must  attend  to  my  own  affairs  first.  Where's 
the  landlady. 

Enter  Miss  M'Canlish  and  Flora,  l. 

Mrs  M'Can.   Here,  my  lady,  at  your  service. 

\Curtsijing  lore- 


Scene  II.]  GUY    MANNERING.  23 

Miss  Maa.  Oh,  do  me  the  favour  to  tell  me  if  there  be 
a  young  woman  here,  who  has  inquired  after  Miss  Man. 
nering. 

Mrs.  M'Can.  This  is  the  person,  I  believe,  my  lady. 

[Presenting  Flora. 
Col.  Man.   Landlady,  let  me  speak  a  word  with  you. 
Mrs.   M  Can.  Directly,  your  honour. 

[Goes  to  Col.  Mannering,  and  after  seeming  to  receive 
his  directions,  goes  off,  n.  The  Dominie,  during  the 
conversation  of  Miss  Mannering  with  Flora,  circles 
round  Miss  Mannering  as  if  about  to  address  her, 
with  characteristic  formality  and  awkwardness,  start- 
ing back  when  she  looks  at  him,  which  she  does, 
with  some  surprise,  as  if  amused  at  his  strange 
figure.  «V 

Miss  Man.  [To  Flora.]  You  served  a  young  lady  in 
this  country,  I  am  told  1 

Flora.  Yes,  ma'arnV  [Curtsies, 

Miss  Man.  A  Miss-\Miss-^Miss  Bertram,  1  think — I 
never  heard  the  name  before,5 
Samp.  Prodigious ! 

Miss  Man.  However,  I  understand  she's  an  excellent 
young  lady,  and  her  character  of  you  is  quite  satisfac- 
tory. [Sampson  seems  pleased.]  I  believe  Miss  Bertram 
dress'd  her  own  hair  1  That  Won't  quite,  quite  suit  me.  J 
shall  wish  you  to  stud^  a  little  under  my  brother's  valet- 
de-chambre;  that  you  may  be  > able  to  arrange  my  hair 
a-la-Chinoise,  to  dispose  my#aigrette  and  Circassian  tur- 
ban, so  as  to  throw  fair  iniposant  over  my  figure.  [Flora 
curtsies,  and  goes  off,  l.       ^. — >^  \ 

Samj).  [Shaking  his  head.]  This  is  harder  than  Chal- 
daic  ; — yea, — than  Hebrew.  Tigleth  Peleazar  himself 
would  have  been  puzzled  at  it.  I  dubitate  whether  this 
damsel  will  fructify  by  my  learned  endeavours. 
Mrs.  M'Candlish  sheivs  in  Miss  Bertram,  r.  ivhom  the 
Colonel  instantly  presents  to  his  sister. 
Col.  Man.  Julia,  let  me  solicit  your  sist^rry  interces- 
sion with  this  young  lady,  the  daughter  of  Sir  Godfrey 
Bertram,  the  friend  by  whom  your  brother's  fortunes 
were  entirely  promoted,  and  for  whose  recent  loss,  I 
grieve  to  say,  she  now  suffers.     It  is  my  wish  that   she 


24  GUY   HANKERING.  [A.ct  I. 

should  honour  Woodburne  with  her  presence,  and  find  in 
it  a  retreat  suited  to  her  present  feelings.  Miss  Bertram, 
let  me  introduce  to  your  friendship  a  soldier's  sister  ; — 
rather  a  hair-brain' d  girl,  but  well  deserving  the  kindest 
regard,  I  assure  you. — [  They  retire  and  converse.  The 
Dominie  listens  to  their  discourse. 

Mrs.  M'Can.  [Coming  forward.']  I'm  as  glad  as  if  any 
one  had  order' d  a  rump  and  dozen,  or  the  commissioners 
had  bespoke  a  county  dinner.  I  hope  they  may  persuade 
Miss  Bertram.  Who  knows  what  may  happen,  if  they  do  ? 
The  great  Col.  Mannering,  with  sa<,ks  full  of  diamonds, 
from  the  India  wars,  and  who  was  loved  by  her  father 
too  ! — If  a  marriage  should  happen,  there'll  be  fine  doings 
in  the  Gorden  Arms  that  day,  I'll  warrant. 

Samp.  [Jumping  for  ward  from  the  party. \  She  will  con- 
sent to  go  to  the  mansion  of  the  great  man  of  battle  ! — 
Exultemus  !  Venite!  Exultemus  !  I  will  rejoice! — I  will 
uplift  a  stave  of  joy,  yea,  I  will  sing  ! — I  do  remember  me 
of  a  catch,  which  I  was  wont  to  sing  twice  a-year,  when 
a  bursar  of  St.  Leonard's  College.  St.  Andrews,  with 
good  appro-ba-tion. 

[He  makes  many  contortions  and  efforts,  like  one  who 
first  forgets  icords,  then  tune;  at  length  breaks  out 
with  absurd  bashfulness — 

"  The  fox  juinpt  over  the  parson's  gate  ; 
FaL  lal  loo  !  fo  lero,  lero  loo  ! 

[They  laugh. 

Bear  with  me,  my   friends:  it  is  but  seldom  I   am  thus 
jocose.     I  will  again  essay,  and  with  more  audacity,  for  my 
own  voice  did  somewhat  abash  me ! — 
"  The  fox  jumpt  over — " 

Verily, — I  need  support, — Worthy  Mrs.  M'Candlish,  sing 
with  me. 

Mrs.  MCan.  I! 

Samp.  Yes!  Cantate  with  me. 

Mrs.  M'  Can.  Heaven  help  you !  I  never  sung  in  all 
my  life  !  but,  there's  two  of  our  honest  neighbours  in  the 
next  room,  who  hate  Grlossin,  and  all  such  oppressors, 
will  be  glad  enough  to  cantitate  with  you,  I  warrant. 

r  Crosses  to  l. 


Scene  II.]  GUY    MANNBR1NG.  25 

Samp.  Then  announce  the  gladsome  tidings  unto  them, 
and  bid  them  hither. — [Exit  Mrs.  M  Candlwh,  l.] — In  the 
mean  time  will  I  pieludize. 

FINALE. 

Enter  two  -Farmers  to  the  Symphony,  l. 

Sampson. 

The  fox  jumpt  over  the  parson's  gate, 

And  stole  his  poultry  from  under  his  nose ; 
"  Aha  !"  quoth  the  parson,  who  popt  out  his  pate, 
"  A  good  fat  hen,  and  away  she  goes !" 

Miss  Mannering.     [Leading  Lucy  forward.] 

Calm,  lady  !  calm  your  troubled  breast ! 

Beneath  our  roof  of  friendship  rest ; 

There  say  what  most  may  sooth  your  woes — 

Samp.  "  A  good  fat  hen,  and  away  she  goes  !" 

Miss  Bertram. 

Friendship,  thou  canst  balm  impart 

To  the  wounded  suffering  heart ! 
A  mourner  to  thy  generous  roof  1  fly, 

And  then,  should  silent  tears  iutrude, 

The  gleam  of  glistening  gratitude 
Shall  light  the  pendent  drops  in  sorrow's  eye. 

TRIO — Miss  Mannering,    &c. 

Away  with  old  Care,  let  the  dullard  go  drown, 

Mirth  and  pleasure  life's  short  rosy  moments  should  crown  J 

For  what  gain  or  what  good  e'er  from  sorrow  arose ! 

Samp.  "  A  good  fat  hen,  and  away  she  goes !" 

Chorus.  Let's  rejoice  ! ! ! 

Samp.  It  doth  beseem  us. 

Choi-us.  Let  s  De  jovial !  !•! 

Samp.  Exultemus ! ! 

Chorus.  Hence,  ye  sordid  and  litigious  ! 
Hence  oppression,  hence 

Samp.  Prodigious!  [Exemt,tm 

END    OF    ACT    I. 


26  GUV    MANNERING.  [Acill. 


ACT      II. 

Scene  I. — 3Iiss    Mannering' s   Boudoir  in  the  House  at 
Woodburne. —  One  of  the  doors  supposed    to  lead    into 
Miss  Mannering's  Apartment,  l. — Large  folding  Doors, 
through  which  is  seen  the  Library,  r.  s.  e. —  Venetian 
Windows,  c,  opening  on  a   Balcony,  with  steps  to  the 
Lake  beneath. —  The  moonlight  gleaming  upon  it,  with 
strong,  clear,    and   distinct    illumination. —  The   apart- 
ment is  decorated  with  Indian    Curiosities, — Horns, — 
Skins  of  Tigers,   Sfc.  fyc. —  Dresses  of  Indian    Tribes — 
Book-stands — Dressing  and  Work-tables,  a  Harp,   fyc. 
Miss  Mannering,  r.  h.     Miss  Bertram,  and  the  Colo- 
nel, l.  h.  discovered,  as  after  supper. 
Miss  Alan.  Upon  my  word,  brother,  it  is  quite  time  to 
send  you   about  your  business.     Formerly,    I    had  to  beg 
for  your  society.     1  admit  there  was  little  temptation  in 
those  days. 

Col.  Man.  Pardon  me,  Julia ;  but  now  you  will  allow 
it  is  doubled. 

Miss  Man.  Aye, — as  you  double  a  cypher,  by  placing 
a  figure  before  it,  and  render  its  value  ten  fold.  [Pointing 
to  Jliss  Bertram. —  They  rise  from  the  table. 

Col.  Man.  Julia,  pray  prevail  upon  Miss  Bertram  to 
sing  that  lovely  air  she  was  beginning,  when  the  servant 
interrupted  us. — It  was  a  beautiful  thing  !  wild, — yet  so 
pathetic. 

Miss  B.  It  has  borrowed  its  tone  of  feeling,  Colonel 
Mannering,  from  the  situation  of  the  singer !  It  is  said, 
from  a  very  ancient  period,  to  have  been  sung  in  our 
family  to  soothe  the  slumbers  of  the  infant  heir  ! 

t  Man.  O,  pray  sing  it.  [Crosses  to  centre. 

Miss   B.  It  is  not  worth  refusing. 

AIR. — Miss  Bertram. 

Oh  !  slumber,  my  darling, 

Thy  sire  is  a  knight, 
Thy  mother  a  lady, 

So  lovely  and  bright ; 
The  hills  and  the  dales, 

From  the  towers  which  we  Bee, 
They  all  shall  belong, 

My  dear  infant,  to  thee. 


Scene  I.]  CUTS'    MaXNeriNG.  27 

Oh !  rest  thee,  babe ;  rest  thee,  babe  ; 

Sleep  on  till  day  ! 
Oh  !  rest  thee,  babe  ;   rest  thee  babe  ; 
Sleep  while  you  may. 
Oh  !  rest  thee,  my  darling, 

The  time  it  shall  come, 
When  thy  sleep  shall  be  broken 

By  trumpet  and  drum  : 
Then  rest  thee,  my  darling, 

Oh  !    sleep  while  you  may ; 
For  war  conies  with  manhood, 
As  light  comes  with  day. 
Oh,  rest  thee,  babe,  &c. 

Miss  Man.  And  was  this  really  made  for  your  own 
family  1 

Miss  B.  Oh,  yes  ;  and  a  hundred  more  such  ditties ! 
"While  my  only  brother,  litcle  Harry,  was  spared  to  my 
parents,  it  was  sung  to  him  every  night  by  an  old  gipsey 
nurse  ;  and  I  have  heard,  tho'  so  young,  he  could  sing  it 
quite  well. — There  is  not  a  milk-rnaid  on  the  estate,  once 
ours,  but  can  chaunt  it,  and  knows  its  history  !  and  I  have 
heard, — tho'  it  hardly  deserves  mentioning, — that  the  per- 
son now  in  possession — this  Glossin,  has,  as  far  as  he  can, 
forbidden  them  to  sing  it,  which  makes  it  doubly  a  fa- 
vourite with  me. 

Col.  Man.  That's  not  surprising ;  music  and  poetry 
were  never  made  for  so  base  born  and  wretched  a  chi- 
caner. 

Miss  Man.  Neither,  brother,  are  they  made  for  you, 
high-born  and  chivalrous  as  you  are,  after  twelve  o'clock 
at  night,  in  a  quiet  house  in  the  country. 

Col.  Man.  1  obey  your  hint :  goodnight,  Julia. — [Sa- 
lutes her  with  kindness  and  familiarity,  then  turns  to  J^Iiss 
Bertram  very  respectfully.\ — That  every  morning  may 
bring  Miss  Bertram  nearer  to  the  restoration  of  all  her 
heart  can  hope,  is  my  most  earnest  prayer,  and  shall  be 
the  object  of  my  most  zealous  exertion. 

[Exit.  R.  D. 

Miss  Man.  A  lion  in  the  toils  !  Oh,  Lucy,  dear  Lucy  ! 
if  you  knew  what  meshes  have  been  spread  for  that 
proud  Colonel,  in  vain. 

Miss  B.  Good  night,  Miss  Mannering  !  and  if  I  do  not 
chide  you  for  these  speeches,  it  is  because  your  kindness 
always  atones  for  your — your — 


2S  01  I    MANNERING.  [Act  II. 

Miss  Man.  For  my  folly,  eh  ?  Well,  well,  sleep  and 
dream  of  gallant  knights  vanquishing  wicked  robbers,  and 
restoring  forlorn  damsels  to  their  rightful  homes — 

Miss  B.  Good  night !  good  night !  [Boat  crosses  here, 
over  the  Lake,Jrom  R.J  [Exit  l. 

Enter  Flora,  r. 

Miss  Man.  She  is  a  charming  girl !  But  how  she  can 
remember  all  the  names  of  her  ancestors. — These  Rolands, 
and  M'Dingawaies,  and  Donagilds — [Seeing  Flora.]  Oh, 
Flora  !  did  my  old  servant,  Grace,  whom  my  brother  sent 
back  to  the  house  in  London,  say  nothing  to  you  before 
she  went  away  1 

Flora.  Oh,  yes,  ma'am. — [Significantly.] — She  told  me 
your  ladyship  might  have  some  occasion  for  my  services 
in  a  very  confidential  way  ;  [Boat  appears  again,] — that 
there  was  a  gentleman,  of  whose  addresses  Colonel  Man- 
nering  disapproved  rather,  ma'am. 

Miss  Man.  But  she  should  have  added,  also,  that  my 
brother  could  find  no  possible  objection  to  him,  but  in 
his  own  prejudices  against  a  man  of  unknown  birth,  who 
could  bring  no  M'Dingawaies,  nor  Donagilds  to  back  his 
suit. — Now,  tho'  I  cannot  sympathize  in  such  prejudices, 
I  have,  since  the  unhappy  duel  between  them,  in  which 
my  lover  was  wounded,  endeavoured  t©  avoid  all  commu- 
nication with  him ;  yet,  I  fear,  he  is  at  this  moment  per- 
haps too  near  me. 

Flora.  What,  here,  madam  % 

Miss  Man.  Twice  have  I  heard  about  this  hour  on  the 
lake,  a  flute,  playing  an  Indian  air,  which  in  happier 
hours  we  used  to  sing  together. 

Flora.  Ay,  madam,  it's  he,  I  warrant!  no  one  but  a 
lover,  or  a  madman,  would  come  fluting  on  a  lake  at  moon- 
light, in  a  cold  winter  night, — [flute  plays  outside,  L.]— 
Hark,  madam  !   as  I  live,  I  think  I  hear  it  now  ! 

Miss  Man.  Hush! — [A flute  is  heard  to  play  the  sym 
phony  of  an  Indian  Air  under  the  window.] — Is  it  earthly 
music  ]  I'm  in  the  land  of  superstition,  and  begin  to 
share  it's  influence,  I  think. 

Flora.  Wait  a  little,  ma'am ;  you'll  find  the  fluting 
gentleman  no  ghost,  I  warrant. 

Miss  Man.  It  is  indeed  the  very  air  he  taugl  t  me;  I'll 
sing  it ; — if  it  be  he,  he  will  answer  it. 


Scene  I.]  GUY  MANNering.  29 

AIR. — Miss  Mannering. 

Oh  tell  me,  love,  the  dearest  hour 

The  parted  anxious  lover  knows, 
When  passion,  with  enchanter's  pow'r, 

Across  his  faithful  mem'ry  throws 

Its  softest,  brightest  flame. 

Bertram. — [  Without,  u.  l.  e.] 

'Tis  when  he  sings  on  some  lone  shore, 
Where  Echo's  vocal  spirits  throng ; 

Whose  aery  voices,  o'er  and  o'er, 
On  stilP  and  moonlight  lake  prolong 
One  dear-lov'd,  thrilling  name. 

[At  the  end  of  the  verse,  Bertram  rushes  up  the  Balcony- 
steps  from  the  Lake.] 

Ber.  Julia  !  belov'd  Julia  ! 

Miss  Man.  'Tis  he  himself; — begone  !  begone  !  What 
will  this  end  in  ? — [Turns  away  from  him.] 

Flora.  A  ring,  a  parson,  and  a  cradle,  I  warrant, 
ma'am 

Ber.  Will  you  refuse  me  even  the  privilege  of  a  friend, 
Julia  1 

Miss  Man.  You  deserve  not  the  name  !  Thus  to  seek 
a  stolen  interview,  which  I  am  forced  to  endure,  because 
my  giving  any  alarm  would  again  involve  you  in  a  quar- 
rel with  my  brother,  and  bring  your  life  once  more  in 
danger. 

Ber.  Do  you  then  blame  me,  Julia  for  what  was  forced 
upon  me  by  his  caprice,  his  injustice  !  Oh  !  let  me  now 
entreat  you  to  fulfil  the  hopes  you  once  gave  me,  and 
trust  to  time  to  reconcile  your  proud  brother  ! 

SONG.— Bertram. 

Be  mine,  dear  maid  !  my  faithful  heart 

Can  never  prove  untrue! 
'Twere  easier  far  from  life  to  part, 

Than  cease  to  live  for  you. 
My  soul,  gone  forth  from  this  lone  breast, 

Lives  only,  love,  in  thine  : 
There  is  its  holy  home  of  rest, 

Its  dear,  its  chosen  shrine. 
Then  turn  thee  not  away,  my  dear, 

Oh  !  turn  thee  not  away  love  ! 
For  by  the  light  of  truth  I  swear 

To  love  thee  night  and  day  love. 


30  GUY    MANURING.  [ACT  II. 

Tis  not  mine  eye  thy  beauty  loves, 

Mine  ear  thy  tuneful  voice; 
But  'tis  my  heart,  thy  heart  approves — 

A  life-euduring  choice ; 
The  lark  shall  first  forget  to  sing, 

When  morn  unfolds  the  east, 
E'er  I  by  change  or  coldness  wring 

Thy  fond  confiding  breast. 

Then  turn  thee  not  away,  &c.  &c. 
[A  heavy  lumbering  noise  heard  without  in  the  Library,  r. 

Miss  Man.   [ Alarmed.}    What  noise  is  that  1 

Flora.  [Looking  out.]  Only  Mr.  Sampson,  madam, 
stumbling  up  and  down  the  library  !  Never  mind  the 
good  soul ! — with  him,  even  seeing  is  not  believing. 

Miss  Man.  For  heaven's  sake,  sir,  begone  the  way  you 
came  ! 

Flora.  Aye,  do — here,  here,  sir  ! 

Ber.  [Runs  to  the  Balcony.]  I  cannot  ; — my  boat  is  in 
possession  of  your  brother's  servants. 

Miss  Man.  To  what  difficulty  has  your  folly  reduced 
me? 

Flora.  [  Watching.]  Mr.  Sampson  has  blundered  this 
way,  sure  enough. 

[Sampson  is  seen  through  the  Library  with  a  long 
candlestick  in  his  hand,  in  his  night-gown  and 
cap.] 

Miss  Man.  What's  to  be  done  % 

Flora.  I  have  it,  I  have  it,  ma'am  ; — let  the  gentleman 
put  on  one  of  those  outlandish  Indian  dresses,  and  squat 
down  behind  the  harp  :  Mr.  Sampson  won't  notice  him  ; 
and  if  he  does,  let  me  alone. 

Ber.  Nay,  if  I  cannot  play  a  Bramin  after  being  so 
many  years  in  India,  it's  very  hard. — [  They  assist  to  dress 
him,  and  conceal  him  behind  the  instrument.] 

Miss  Man.  But  how  shall  we  account  for  his  being 
here,  if  he  is  discovered  ? 

Flora.  We  must  take  our  cue  from  circumstances, 
ma'am. 

Enter  Sampson,  r.  h.  u.  e.  from  the  Library 

Samp.  Of  a  verity,  this  is  not  the  way  to  mine  own 
apartment,  neither  !   Nay,  it  doth  seem  that  of  a  lady. 


S..£NE   I.]  GL\     MANN  ERIN  G.  ol 

Flora.  \  Whispering.]  There,  ma'am,  did  I  not  say  he 
would  not  see  us  ? 

Samp.  I  would  I  had  the  clue  of  Ariadne,  for  this 
dwelling  is  a  Cretan  labyrinth  ;  I  will  again  essay  to  ex- 
tricate myself. — [He  walks  toward  the  women, — Flora 
advances,  whom  he  does  not  set  till  close  to  her.] — Prodigious ! 

Flora.  Why,  who  would  have  thought  this  of  you,  Mr. 
Sampson  !  to  be  prying  about  so  very  near  my  young 
lady's  dressing-room,  at  this  time  of  night  !  1  assure  you, 
I  take  it  very  strange  of  you  ! 

Sa??ip.  I  was  erratic,  Mistress  Flora. 

Flora.  Never  mistress  me,  man  ! — but  get  away  as  fast 
as  you  can  :  Lord  only  knows  what  Colonel  Mannering 
will  say,  if  he  should  know  of  it. 

Samp.  And  that  might,  perchance,  prejudice  my  young 
mistress,  Miss  Bertram,  in  his  opinion  ;  woeful  man  that 
I  am,  who  shall  deliver  me  ? 

Flora.  Pray  go  immediately,  Mr.  Sampson. 

Samp.  1  obey ; — I  will  begone  swiftly, — I  am  beset 
with  fears  and  trepidations. — [Crosses  to  l. —  Goes  towards 

L.    H.    D.] 

Flora.  [Running  after  him  and,  pulling  him  bach.] 
Worse  and  worse,  Mr.  Sampson  !  that's  not  your  way. 
Would  you  burst  into  my  young  lady's  bed-room  ?  In- 
deed, Mr.  Dominie,  I  begin  to  suspect  you.  Is  that  the 
way  you  propose  to  teach  her  Hebrew  1  Oh,  fie  !  fie  ! 
fie  I 

Samp.  Prodigious! — I  am  confounded. — [Peeping  in.] 
Assuredly,  there  is  a  four-posted  bed,  with  crimson  furni- 
ture.     J  will  gird  up  my  loins  and  flee. 

[He  struggles  out  of  Flora's  grasp,  stumbles  forward 
and  overturns  the  harp. — — He  sees  Bertram,  and 
stares  at  him  with  great  surprise.  Bertram  retain* 
his  cross-legged  jiosition  of  an  Indian  Priest,  and, 
stares  at  him  again  with  great  composure.] 

Mirifice  !   whom  have  we  here  ] 

Flora.  Why,  Mr.  Sampson,  what  mischief  will  you  do 
next]  That  you  should  disturb  that  learned  Indian  gen- 
tleman, just  as  he  was  occupied  in  teaching  my  young 
mistress  the — the — the — what  shall  I  say  ?  Dear,  dear, 
where  shall  I  find  a  word  ?  [Aside. 


32  GUY    MANNT.RING.  [Act    II. 

Samp.  Is  he  a  teacher  ?  Then  T  reverence  him.  In 
what  is  he  profound  ? 

Flora.   Astrology. 

Samp.  Prodigious  !  Nay,  then.  I  will  uplift  my  voice 
against  him.— [  Very  loud.] — The  occult  sciences  are  a 
snare  of  the  enemy, — delusions  of  darkness  ! — works  of 
the  wicked  one  ! 

Miss.  Man.  [Aside.]  I  must  stop  his  clamours  ! — Nay, 
Mr.  Sampson,  I  see  no  more  harm  in  the  learned  gentle- 
man teaching  me  the  Sanscrit,  than  in  your  proposal  to 
teach  me  Hebrew. 

Samp  Pardon  me,  most  honourable  ; — I  knew  not 
when  I  proffered  my  poor  endeavours,  that  there  was  a 
learned  Pundit,  who  doubtless  is  better  provided; — never- 
theless, I  will  accost  him  in  the  Eastern  tongue. — [To 
Bertram.] — Solum  alicum  ! — [Bertram  rises  and  salams, 
which  salutation  is  returned  ridiculously  by  Sampson.] — 
Expound  unto  me,  most  learned  Pundit,  whether  we 
shall  confer  in  the  Sanscrit  of  Bengali,  in  the  Telinga,  or 
in  the  Malaya  language  !  Praise  to  the  blessing  of 
Heaven  on  my  poor  endeavours,  I  am  indifferently  skill'd 
in  these  three  tongues. 

Bcr.  Confound  your  skill ! — I  am  aground  : — I  know 
only  a  few  words  of  Moorish  gibberish.  [A  knocking  at 
K.   d. 

Miss  Man.  Flora  !  there's  my  brother  knocking. 

Flora.  [To  Bertram.]  Follow  me  down  the  back  stairs, 
most  learned  Pundit.  [Exit  irith  Bertram,  r.  h. 

Samp.  Where  has  the  damsel  conveyed  the  learned 
Pundit  1     I  would  converse  with  him. 

Miss  Man.  Come  in,  brother  ! 

Enter  Colonel  Mannering,  r.  d. 

Col.  Man.  What  has  been  the  matter  1  My  servants 
heard  music  just  now  upon  the  lake,  and  have  discovered 
a  strange  boat  beneath  these  apartments.  I  heard,  too,  a 
heavy  fall  in  your  room. — No  accident,  I  hope  1 

Miss  Man.  You  heard  Mr.  Sampson,  brother,  who  has 
chosen  this  strange  time  of  night  to  rummage  out  the 
Indian  manuscripts  in  these  cabinets,  and  has  stumbled 
over  my  harp. 

Col.   Man.    How's   this,    Mr.    Sampson  ?      You    should 


Scene  I.j  GUY    MANNERlNG.  33 

take  other  time  and  place  for  your  Oriental  studies,  than 
so  close  to  my  sister's  room  at  midnight. 

Scnnp.  Honour'd  sir  !  I  crave  your  forgiveness ;  I 
wandered  unwittingly,  and  was  detained  by  my  thirst  for 
learning;  that  erudite  Moonshee,  whom  I  sought  to  con- 
verse withal. 

Miss  Man.  [Alarmed,  fetches  a  hook  from  table.]  This 
is  the  book  you  sought,  I  believe,  sir. 

Samp.  [  Opens  a  fine  illuminated  manuscript.]  Prodig- 
ious !  I  profess  it  is  an  examplar  of  the  Shah-Nameh  of 
the  illustrious  Furdusi !  [Puts  it  under  his  arm.]  but, 
touching  that  Sanscrit  Interpreter,  whom — 

Re-enter  Flora,  r. 

Miss.  Man.  Indian  Interpreter  sir  !  here  it  is,  in  three 
volumes,  folio.  [Pushes  them  to  Sampson. 

Flora.  [Aside  to  her  mistress  while  Sampson  examines 
the  books.]  I  have  sent  your  Pundit  safe  off,  and  told 
him  to  wait  at  the  village  till  further  advice. 

Miss  Man.  Thank  heaven  for  that !  But  how  shall  we 
get  safe  from  the  Dominie  1      He'll  talk  of  nothing  else. 

[Aside. 

Samp.  I  profess  this  is  the  most  erudite  work,  and  of 
great  scarcity  !  I  have  observed  it,  honoured  colonel, 
noted  in  catalogues  with  four  R's,  which  denoteth  "raris- 
simus"  But,  worthy  sir,  as  concerning  this  learned 
Pundit — 

Flora.   Is  this  the  book,  sir  ] 

Samp.   It  is  rare  ;   but  the  Ulemat — % 

Miss  Man.  Or  this,  sir? 

Samp.   It  is  precious  !   but  the  aforesaid  Bramm — 

Flora.  O,  'tis  this,  I'm  sure 

Samp.  It  is  of  the  last  rarity  ! — but  the  Moonshee  ! 

Miss  Man.  Or  this . . 

Samp.  It  is  curious; — but,  the  Moonshee,  the  Pundit — 
the— 

[They  thrust  books  upon  him,  which  he  cannot  refuse 
himself  the  pleasure  of  opening,  until  his  hands 
and  arms  become  embarrassed,  and  he  begins  to  let 
them  fall,  one  or  two  always  escaping,  as  he  picks  up 
the  others.} 


34  GUY    MANNERING.  [Act  II- 

Col.  Man.  Come,  Mr.  Sampson,  I  fancy  you  had  better 
retire,  and  what  books  you  wish  for  shall  be  brought  you. 
Barnes!  [Calls. 

Enter  Barnes,  r. 

Light  Mr.  Sampson  to  his  room — [Sampson  gathers  up 
what  books  he  can  carry.] — And  hark  !  When  you  have 
shewed  him  in,  lock  the  door.  I  must  take  precautions 
against  this  extravagant  thirst  for  information. 

Barnes.  This  way,  Mr.  Sampson,  if  you  please  to  fol- 
low. 

Samp,  I  prae,  sequar  !     Prodigious  ! 

Exit,  loaded  with  books,  following  Barnes,  r. 

Col.  Man.  All  now  seems  quiet ; — so  the  mystery  of 
the  music  and  boat  must  remain  till  opportunity  shall  lead 
to  discovery. — [y4s?'de.] — Once  more,  Julia,  good  night. 

[Exit,  r.  d. 

Miss  Man.  Good  night,  and  thanks  for  this  narrow  es- 
cape ! — Go  to  my  chamber,  Flora  ; — I'll  follow  directly. 

Flora.  Yes,  ma'am.  \Exit,-L.T>. 

Miss  Man.  T  declare  I  am  frightened  at  my  own  im- 
prudence !  Should  my  brother  discover  this  business, 
what  will  be  the  consequence  ?  Oh,  dear !  I  wish  he 
would  but  sympathize  a  little  more  with  love,  and  a  little 
Jess  with  honour  : — but  alas  ! 

AIR. — Miss  Mannering. 

In  ancient  times,  in  Britain's  Isle, 

Lord  Henry  well  was  known  ; 
No  knight  in  all  the  land  more  fam'd, 

Or  more  deserv'd  renown. 
His  heart  was  all  on  honour  bent, 

He  ne'er  could  stoop  to  love ; 
No  lady  in  the  land  had  pow'r 

His  frozen  heart  to  move. 

Yet,  in  that  bosom  deem'd  so  stern, 

The  kindest  feelings  dwelt; 
Her  tender  tale,  when  pity  told, 

It  never  fail'd  to  melt. 
But  for  no  idle  passion  form'd, 

His  high  heroic  mood, 
Glorv's  sublimer  charms  alone 

With  lover's  ardour  woo'd. 

[Exit,   L.   D. 


Scene  II.]  GUY   MANNERI^g.  35 

Scene   II. — A    desolate    Heath  between     Woodburne  and 
Kippletringn,n.—iThe  ~§/Loon  declining. 

Enter   Bertram,  l.  h.  bewildered  and  uncertain    of  his 
wayK 

Ber.  Now  the  devil  take  all  the  glib-tongu'd  ladies' 
maids  !  would  any  one  have  thought,  to  hear  that  chat- 
tering monkey,  that  I'd  more  to  do  than  just  to  follow 
my  nose  straight  across  the  heath,  to  this  Kip-Kap-Kap- 
ple — What  the  devil  did  she  call  the  place  1  And  here  I 
am,  fairly  thrown  out!  TheTnoon's  going  down  too,  and 
I  may  stray  further  out  of  my  way.  Holloa  !  I  wish  some 
one  was  within  hail,  friend  or  foe,  I  care  not. 

Enter  Dandie  Dinmont,  l. — He  comes forward  a  little  tip- 
sy, and  staggering. 

Din.  Fair  and  softly,  fair  and  softly,  Dandie,  my  lad  ! 
Who  was  that  hollowing,  Fwonder ]  I  should  like  to 
fall  in  with  a  companion,  for  it  is  growing  confounded 
dark;  I'll  be  hang'd'Sf  I  can  see  my  way  :  I  wish  1  had 
got  Dumpling;  many  people  pretend  to  guide  their  horse; 
now,  I  always  let  my  horse  guide  me  :  he'd  have  carried 
me  to  the  next  ale-house,  ri*ht  enough,  dark  or  light. 
Steady  !  my  head's  a  little  queerish  !  To  think  that  five 
poor  bottles  of  rum  should  haW  done  this/how,  among 
four.  [Bertram  advances.]  Whogoes  there? 

[Raising  his  ivhip. 

Ber.  A  friend ! 

Din.  Stand  fast  a  bit  though  ;  parley  a  little,  Dandie, 
— few  friends  on  a  mooi  at  midnight.  What  do  you 
want? 

Ber.  I  am  a  stranger.  My  name  is  Brown,  Captain  of 
Fusileers. 

Din.  And  I  am  Dandie  Dinmont,  reckoned  the  best 
bruiser  in  this  country.  I'll  eat,  drink,  or  fight  wi'  any 
man  ;  so  stand  off! 

Ber.  I  don't  mean  to  dispute  it;  I  assure  you,  my 
friend.  I  am  an  Englishman  ;  I  have  lost  my  way,  and 
am  really  in  want  of  a  guide  to  the  next  town. 

Din.  Eh!  no,  are  you  really.  Ye  shall  have  hup 
then.     If  I  had  but  my  little  horse  now,  you    might    have 


30  GUY    MANNEHING.  [Act  II. 

rode  on  his  crupper;  he  always  finds  the  way  when  I  lose 
it,  and  his  back's  main  strong ;  he'd  carry  six  if  'twere 
long  enough.  But  come  away.  [  Crosses  to  r.  u.]  steady' 
are  ye  big,  or  little  ? 

Ber.  Why,  middling. 

Din.  That  will  do ;  for  this  moor,  ye  must  know,  is 
not  in  great  reputation.  There's  thieves  and  gipsies 
haunt  it. 

Ber.  Gipsies  !  pooh  !  nonsense  ! 

Din.  Oh  man,  we  ha'  great  faith  in  'em  in  our  country. 
They  prophecy,  and  knock  down,  like  nobody  knows 
what ;  so  every  body  believes  in  'em  ;  and  there's  an  old 
woman,  Meg  Merrilies,  the  queen  of  'em,  that  deals  wi' 
the  devil,  they  say,  and  can  make  'em  do  any  thing,  if  she 
but  lifts  up  her  finger ;  she's  known  for  a  witch  all  over 
these  parts. 

Ber.  Well,  my  friend,  I'll  stand  by  you. 

Din.  Will  ye  ?  Then  give  me  a  rough  shake  of  the 
hand. 

Ber.  With  all  my  heart. 

[Bertram  gives  him  a  hearty   shake,  which    Dinmont  re- 
turns.] 

Din.  Gad  !  and  if  your  heart  be  like  your  hand,  it  be 
a  plaguy  hard  one.  But  look ,'  yonder's  a  couple  of 
lights  dancing  bonnily  before  us. 

Ber.  A  couple  'I  I  see  but  one,  friend,  and  that  seems 
pretty  steady. 

Din.  Does  it  1  Then  I've  a  notion  that  you  don't  see 
with  both  your  eyes,  as  I  do ;  but  come  on  !  let  us  make 
our  way  to  it  border-fashion,  side  by  side  ! 

Ber.  [Aside.}  The  fellow  gripes  like  a  smith's  vice. 
Come  along,  friend,  then,  side  by  side. 

Din.  Aye,  like  true  men  ;  and  if  we  meet  with  rogues, 
we'll  shew  'em  another  border-fashion,  hand  to  hand.  I 
say, — you  were  bawling  lustily  just  now  ; — I  can  bawl  a 
bit  myself.  Suppose  we  try  if  we  can't  havo  a  kind  of  a — 
what  d'ye  call  it — a — double  song  together,  just  to  cheer 
the  way  over  the  heath. 

Ber.   With  all  my  heart. 


Scene  III.]  GUY    MANNEuixc.  37 

DUET. — Bertram  and  Dinmont. 

DlNMONT. 

Without  a  companion,  what's  life  but  a  heath 

That's  wearisome,  murky  aud  long  ? 
But  Dandie  defies  dullness,  danger,  and  death, 

With  his  friend  and  his  glass  and  his  song. 

Bertram. 

You're  right :  with  a  friend,  man,  you  heighten  your  zest. 
And  march  o'er  life's  road  brisk  and  brightly ; 
With  double  delight  on  its  green-swards  you  rest, 
And  trip  o'er  its  rough  places  lightly, 

Both. 

Then  come  on,  side  by  side,  and  as  long  as  I've  breath, 

Here's  an  arm  that's  both  willing  and  strong ! 
Jolly  hearts  bid  defiance  to  danger  and  death, 

Make  light  of  the  dark  roads,  and  short  of  the-long. 

[Exuent,  r. 

Scene  III. — A  wilder  and  more  romantic  part  of  the 
chase,  or  forest. — A  sort  of  scattered  copse  wood,  with, 
branches  of  one  or  tico  decayed  oaks. — A  cliff  or  two  ri- 
sing behind  them. — Hills  in  the  distance. — A  Gipsey  hut 
in  the  centre,  with  a  fire  ivithin  it.  Gabriel,  Sebas- 
tian, and  other  Gipsies,  men  and  women,  occupied  in 
cooking,  and  various  other  employments,  expressive  of 
their  habits. — Children  mingling  in  the  group. 

Gab.  Sebastian,  where's  the  old  gun  with  the  Spanish 
barrel  ? 

Seb.  Why,  will  you  need  her  to-night  ? 

Gab.  Aye  :  Dirk  Hatteraick,  the  Dutchman,  is  on  the 
watch. 

Seb.  What,  another  shark  to  be  harpoon'd  by  us  gip- 
sies %  [Comes  forward,  r.]  I'll  have  nought  to  do  with  it. 
I  hav'nt  forgotten  how  he  cried  and  groan'd. 

Gab.  What  he  ? 

Seb.  [In  a  low  voice.]  He  of  the  wood  of  Ellangowan, 
sixteen  years  ago,  when  they  stole  the  child.  No,  no.  I'll 
have  no  more  of  that.  Let  Dirk  Hatteraick  do  his  own 
bloody  business.  [Crosses  to  i.. 


?>8  GUY    MANNCRINC  I[ActI1 

Gab.  But  it  is  business  that  concerns  us  all.     The  child, 
that  very  child  is  now  a  man,  and  escaped  from  Batavia  ; 
has  served  in  the  army,  and  has  come  home  again. 
Seb.  How  do  you  know  this  1 

Gab.  I  saw  him  myself  at  Carlisle  two  days  since,  and 
you  know  that  I  knew  him  in  India. 

Seb.  Well,  well,  let  him  alone  ;  he'll  never  remember 
anything  of  this  country. 

Gab.  Dirk  doesn't  think  so  ;  and  is  determiu'd  at  least 
to  ship  him  over  the  herring-pond  again.  Besides,  he  has 
other  plans  about  it.  We  have  had  him  close  watched  ; 
he  has  been  seen  twice  to  take  boat  on  the  lake,  and  was 
in  the  house  at  Woodburne  this  very  night  ;  that  Franco 
knew,  and  watched  him  out  cf  it.  He  must  cross  this 
way  to  Kippletringan  ;  -and  then — 

Seb.  I  say  again,  I'll  not  meddle.  What  does  Meg 
Merrilies  say ;   she,  whom  we  must  all  obey  1 

Gab.  She  say  !  Why,  she  doats  ;  she's  no  more  what 
she  was,  or  ought  to  be  :  she's  turned  tendor-hearted,  and 
swears  she'll  hinder  us  from  lifting  a  finger  against  the 
lad  of  Ellangowan,  and  that  if  we  attempt  to  keep  him 
from  his  own,  we  but  fight  against  fate  ! 

Sab.  Well,  and  we  dare  not  dispute  her  bidding  ;  not 
even  her  very  signs. 

Gab.  Pooh  !  thou  art  as  bad  as  she  :  let  us  only  be  se- 
cret, and  do  the  business  before  she  knows  anyrhing  about 
it.  Do  you  go  and  tell  Dirk  Hatteraick  I'll  be  at  Mirk- 
wood  path  shortly,  with  a  party  to  help  him.  Tell  him  t:> 
keep  his  ground,  and  not  begin  till  I  come.  [Exit  Sebas- 
tian, r.]  Come,  fellows,  to  our  several  stations. 
GIPSEY   GLEE  AND  CHORUS* 

Franco. 
The  chough  and  crow  to  roost  are  gone, 

The  owl  sits  on  the  tree  ; 
The  hush'd  wind  wails  with  feeble  moan, 

Like  in  taut  charity. 
The  wild-fire  dances  on  the  fen, 

The  red  star  sheds  it  ray : 
Up-rouse  ye,  then,  my  merry  men, 
It  is  our  opening  day. 

Chorus — Up-rouse  ye,  &c.  &c. 

*To  Mrs.  Joanna  Bailie's  friendly  permission,  the  author  was  indebted  for  the 
U6e  of  this  beautiful  poem ; — accompanied  by  the  music  of  Bishop,  the  effect  it 
produces  is  most  powerful  and  characteristic. 


Scene  III.]  GUY   MANNering.  39 

Gipsey    Woman. 

Both  child  and  nurse  are  fast  asleep, 

And  clos'd  is  every  flow'r, 
And  winking  tapers  faintly  peep 

High  from  my  lady's  bow'r ; 
Bewilder'd  hinds,  with  shorten'd  ken, 

Shrink  on  their  murky  way ; 
Up-rouse  ye  then,  my  merry  men, 

It  is  our  op'ning  day. 

Chorus — Up-rouse  ye,  &c.  &c. 
Gabriel. 

Nor  board,  nor  garner,  own  we  now, 

Nor  roof,  nor  latched  door, 
Nor  kind  mate,  bound  by  holy  vow, 

To  bless  a  good  man's  store : 
Noon  lulls  us  in  a  gloomy  den, 

And  night  is  grown  our  day ; 
Up-rouse  ye  then,  my  merry  men, 

And  use  it  as  ye  may. 

Chorus — Up-rouse  ye,  &c.  &c. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Gabriel,  Franco,  the  Boy  and  Gip- 
sey girl. 

[  Voices  without,  r.J  Holloa  !  Holloa  ! 

Gab.  What  voices  are  those  1    Holloa  !  who's  there  1 

Enter  Bertram  and  Dinmont,   r. 

'Tis  he  himself,  by  all  that's  lucky!     Then  all's  safe. 

[Aside. 

Din.  [Aside  to  Ber.]  They  are  the  gipsies,  but  there's 
only  one  man  with  them  ;  the  rest  are  not  far  off,  I  reckon. 
Well,  never  fear  !  we  are  two  :  and  for  me,  fair  play,  and 
I'll  face  any  three  of  them!  Bless  ye  !  they  are  not  fed 
like  the  like  of  us. 

Ber.  I  fear  them  nq£;  and  with  you  at  my  side,  friend, 
there's  not  many  things  ought  to  alarm  me. 

Gab.  What  seek  ye  here  1 

Din.  We  have  lost  our  way,  man,  and  are  seeking  that; 
know  ye  which  way  Kippletiingan  lies  ? 


40  GUY    MTANNERING.  [Act  11. 

Gab.  Right  over  the  hill,  through  the  ford,  cross  the 
bog,  thro'  the  thicket,  and  you  have  it. 

Din.  Hill,  ford,  bog,  thicket!  The  gipsey  knave  is 
making  fun,  I  think.  Hark  ye,  friend  !  have  you  a  head 
on  your  shoulders  ? 

Gab.  Ay,  sir  ;   and  what  of  that  ] 

Din.  Why  ;  how  think  you  it  would  sort  with  the  butt 
end  of  a  Liddesdale  whip  ?  [Shakes  it  at  him. 

Gip.  Gir.  [Aside  to  Gab.]  Take  care,  give  good  words. 
That's  fighting  Dinmont  of  Liddesdale !  1  know  him 
well.  I've  seen  him  clear  Staneshaw-bank  fair  from  end 
to  end,  driving  fifty  men  before  him. 

Bcr.  [In  centre.]  Come,  sirs,  there's  no  occasion  for 
quarrelling !  This  gentlemen  and  I  want  a  guide  to  the 
town  he  mentioned,  and  I  will  willingly  pay  him  hand- 
somely. 

Din.  It's  more  than  he  deserves  ;  to  refuse  two  poor 
bewildered  young  creatures  help,  at  such  a  time  of  night. 

Gip.  Girl.  I'm  sure,  gentlemen,  you'll  excuse  us;  we 
are  not  accustomed  to  see  the  like  of  you  ;  but  if  there's 
any  thing  that  you  would  take — 

Din.  [In  centre.]  Can  there  be  any  thing  we  won't  take, 
my  dear]  For  1  have  not  taken  meat  or  drink  this  four 
or  five  hours,  and  the  cold  blast  on  the  hills  has  given  me 
such  an  appetite,  that,  as  the  Yorkshire  man  says,  "  I  could 
eat  a  horse  behind  the  saddle." 

Gip.   Girl.  Well,  sir,  such  as  we  have — 

Din.  That's  a  good  lass  !  Come,  stir !  Come,  my 
sulky  lad,  lend   a  hand  here. 

[They  draw  for  ward  a  rude  fable,!,,  and  place  meat 
and  drink  upon  it, — Gabriel  and  Franco  retire,  and 
whisper  together. 

Din.  [  To  Ber.]  Try  a  leg  of  her,  man ;  she's  a  moor- 
fowl.  [Helping  him.]  Did  you  ever  see  a  moor  fowl  in 
your  part  of  the  world  '? 

Ber.  Never,  unless  stufPd,  upon  the  shelves  of  a  mu- 
seum. * 

[Meg  Mtrrilies  darts  from  behind  the  lent,  it.  when  Ber- 
tram speaks ;  advances  softly  a  step  or  two,  and 
gazes  intently  on  him.        / 


Scene  111.]  GUY   MANNERIng.  41 

Din.  Lord,  the  ignorance  of  your  southern  gentlefolks  ! 
Stuff  it  into  your  own  stomach,  man!  [Drinks.]  This  is 
capital  brandy  too  !  It  will  be  moonshine  brandy,  I 
reckon.  The  smugglers  and  gipsies  are  all  one  man's 
children.  But  lord  !  captain,  (since  you  say  you  are  a 
captain,)  did  you  ever  in  your  life  see  a  woman  stand 
staring,  as  that  old  gipsey  woman  has  been  staring  at 
you?  That's  she,  1  take  it,  I  told  you  of:  she  ihey  call 
Meg  Merrilies,  the  ruler  and  terror  of  them  all. 

Ber.  [  Turning  round  and  observing  Meg.]  My  good 
woman,  do  you  know  me,  that  you  look  at  me  so  hard  1 

[Rises. 

Meg.  Better  than  you  know  yourself. 

Ber.  Aye,  aye  ;    that  is,  you'll  tell  my  future  fortune. 

Meg.  Yes,  because  I  know  your  past. 

Ber.   Indeed  !  then  you  have  read  a  perplexed  page. 

Meg.  It  will  be  clearer  soon. 

Ber.  Never  less  likely. 

Meg.  Never  more  so. 

Ber.  [Offering  money.]  Your  manner  is  wild  and  oracu- 
lar enough  ;  come,  give  me  a  proof  of  your  art. 

Meg.  Offer  it  not.  If,  with  a  simple  spell,  I  cannot  re- 
call times  which  you  have  long  forgotten,  hold  me  the 
miserablest  impostor.  Hear  me,  hear  me,  Henry — Henry 
Bertram  ! 

Ber.  Henry  Bertram  !  Sure,  I  have  heard  that  name  ', 
but  when   and  where — 

Meg.  Hark  !  hark  !  to  the  sound  of  other  days  !  Listen, 
and  let  your  heart  awake.  "  Girl,  come  hither ;  sing  me 
the  song  I  used  to  sing  to  Bertram's  babe." 

["  The  gipsey  girl  sings  the  air  which  Miss  Bertram 
sung,  but  much  more  icildly." 

AIR—"  Gipsey  Girl."* 

Oh !  hark  thee,  young  Henry, 

Thy  sire  is  a  knight, 
Thy  mother  a  lady, 

So  lovely  and  bright ; 
The  hills  and  the  dales, 

From  the  towers  which  we  see, 
They  all  shall  belong, 

My  dear  Henry,  to  thee. 

*Miss  C.  Cushman,  in  her  performance  of  the  character  of  Meg  Merrilies,  sings 
these  lines,  and  the  effect  produced  is  most  powerful. 


42  GUY    MANNER  I XG.  [ACT  II. 

Oh  !  rest  thee,  babe  ;  rest  thee,  babe ; 

Sleep  on  till  day 
Oh  !  rest  thee,  babe  ;  rest  thee,  babe  ; 

Sleep  while  you  may. 

Ber.  These  words  do  indeed  thrill  my  bosom  with 
strange  emotions.  Woman,  speak  more  plainly,  and  tell 
me  why  those  sounds  thus  agitate  my  inmost  soul ;  and 
what  ideas  they  are,  that  thus  darkly  throng  upon  my 
mind  at  hearing  them. 

Meg.  Speaks. 

Listen,  youth,  to  words  of  power, 
Swiftly  comes  the  rightful  hour ! 
They/  who  did  thee  scathe  and  wrong, 
Shall  pay  their  deeds  by  death  e'er  long. 

The  dark  shall  be  light, 

And  the  wrong  made  right, 
And  Bertram's  right,  and  Bertram's  might, 
Shall  meet  on  Ellangowan's  height  5 

[Exit  Gabriel,  suddenly  up  the  rocks,  after  appearing 
to  give  Franco  some  directions. 

Ber.  [Stands  gazing  on  her,  thoughtful  and  surprised.] 
Bertram  !  Bertram!  Why  does  that  name  sound  so  fa- 
miliar to  me  1 

Din  He  is  bewitched,  for  certain.  There  wcs  always 
witchcraft  and  devilry  among  them  gipsey  clan,  I  have 
heard. 

Meg.  [  Who  has  watched  Gabriel  up.}  And  now  begone  ! 
Franco,  guide  these  strangers  on  their  way  to  Kipple- 
tringan.  Yet,  stay  ;  let  me  see  your  hand.  [Leads  him 
forward.}  What  say  these  lines  of  the  fortunes  past  ? 
Wandering  and  woe,  and  danger,  and  crosses  in  love  and 
in  friendship  !  What  of  the  future  1  Honour,  wealth, 
prosperity,  love  rewarded,  and  friendship  re-united  !  But 
what  of  the  present  ?  Aye  !  there's  a  trace,  which  speaks 
of  danger,  of  captivity,  perchance  ;  but  not  of  death  ! 
[hooks  cautiously  round,  then  beckons  Dimnont,  and  speaks 
in  a  very  low  deep  voice.]  If  you  are  attacked,  be  men. 
and  let  your  hands  defend  your  heads!  I  will  not  be  far 
distant  from  you  in  the  moment  of  need.  And  now  be- 
gone !  Fate  calls  you  !  Away,  away,  away  !  [She  retires 
into  (he  tent,  r. 


■■ 


Scene  IV.]  GUY   MANNering.  43 

Din.  Lord,  captain,  I  wish  she  may  be  all  right,  and 
not  familiar  with  other  things  than  live  in  this  world. 

Ber.  Don't  be  afraid,  my  friend. 

Din.  Fear'd  !  damn'd  a  whistle  fear  I  !  Be  she  witch 
or  devil,  its  all  one  to  Dandie  ;  and  yet  I  felt  but  once 
like  just  now,  when  she  was  conjuring.  Tf  1  could  ha' 
muster'da  bit  of  a  pray'r,  I  donyknow  but  I'd  have  given 
it  her ! — but,  as  I  said,  devil  talqe  me  if  I  baulk  you,  cap- 
tain ;   so  forward,  my  little  fellow,  and  we'll  follow. 

Franco.  This  way,  gehtlefo&s  !  f Exit  Franco  up  the 
rocks,  Dandie  and  Bertram  following. 

Scene   IV. — A    wild  landscape.     Enter  Gabriel,  l.  cau- 


tiously, and  looking  back. 

Gab.  Franco  has  observed  my  track,  I  see  !  That's  a 
promising  chick  in  our  craft,  *nd  loves  his  profession.  He 
has  as  quick  an  eye  to  mischifef  as  the  oldest  of  our  gang. 
[Enter  Franco,  quickly,  l]  Well,  my  little  decoy  duck, 
are  they  far  behind  ? 

Franco.  Not  far ;  I  watched  you,  and  sported  on  be- 
fore, to  get  a  word  with  you,  now  we're  free  from  old  Meg. 

Gab.  Well,  then;  lead  'em  down  the  pass  in  the  rocks, 
to  Hatteraick's  point,  and  contrive  to  loiter  there  till  I 
come  up  the  glen  with  my  party  ;  but  be  sure  not  to  give 
Dirk  the  signal  till  you  see  us.  ^ 

Franco.  Trust  to  rfe,    Ga,bN£  1,     rfush  !  they  are  here. 

E?iter  Din mont  and  Bi 
Din.   Halloa  !     you,  sir  !     You  /tare  too  1     What  are 


you  saying  to  the  boy  1 

Gab.  I  only  came  to  give4fTm  directions ;  I  fear'd  he 
might  mistake  the  road. 

Din.  Look  you,  friend  !  your  people  sometimes  come 
up  our  water-side  ;  now  they  have  always  had  a  barn,  and 
clean  straw,  and  a  bellyful,  at  Charlie's  Hope  ;  but  if  you 
play  us  any  trick  now,  the  devil  take  me,  if  you  or  they 
shall  ever  have  any  thing  but  your  shirts'full  of  broken 
bones.  Damn  it.  I  could  find  the  way  myself;  for  the 
brandy  has  cleared  my  eyes,  the  rum  had  blinded. 

Gab.  There's  no  cause  for  your  suspicion,  sir  ;  you'll  be 
taken  care  of,  depend  'on  it. 


44  GUY    3TANXERIVG.  [A.CT  II. 

SONG— Gabriel. 

Follow  him,  nor  fearful  deem 

Danger  lurks  in  gipsey-guile  ; 
Rude  and  lawless  tho'  we  seem, 

Simple  hearts  we  bear  the  while. 
Robber  fierce,  nor  thief  is  here, 

Who  shroud  by  night  in  savage  den; 
Fearless  then,  o'er  mosses  drear, 

Gloomy  thicket,  darksome  glen, 
Safely  follow,  follow  him. 

From  rustic  swains,  the  petty  bribe, 

Petty  spoil  from  cot,  or  farm, 
Content  the  wand'ring  gipsey  tribe, 

Who  the  traveller  never  harm. 
Then,  nor  thief,  nor  robber  fear, 

Who  shroud  brought  in  savage  den; 
But  thro'  mosses,  dank  and  drear, 

Barren  wilds,  and  darksome  glen, 
Safely  follow,  follow  him. 

[Exeunt    Gabriel,    l.    Dinmont    and    Bertram    following 
Franco,  r. 

Scene  V. — A  sort  of  Delt^or  Passe,  with  cliffs  rugged 
and  broken  ;  shaggy  underwood  growing  on  each  side. 
In  the  Offing,  the  Sea,  or  rather  an  inlet  from  it,  and  a 
Smugglers'  lugger  riding  in  the  distance.  Two  Smug- 
glers lurking  on  the  rocks.  The  grey  dawn  of  morn- 
ing, with  the  sun  faintly  seen  to  light  the  extreme  hori- 
zon. 

Enter  Hatteraick  and  Sebastian,  down  the  rocks,  u.  e.  r. 

Hatt.  By  the  elements,  your  fire's  out,  your  spirit's  gone, 
Sebastian  !  You're  turned  cowards  and  cravens,  every 
man  of  you!  O,  the  pretty  lads  I  have  seen  you  gipsey 
tribe  turn  out,  to  land  a  cargo,  or  to  fight  the  land  sharks  ! 
And  to  wince  at  such  a  trifle  as  this  ! 

Seb.  But  I  tell  you,  Dirk  Hatteraick,  that  Meg  will  not 
consent  that  there  should  be  a  hair  of  his  head  hurt ;  and 
thou  know'st  well  the  weight  she  has  with  all  our  tribe, 
and  why  she  has  it.  We  dare  not  disobey  even  her  signs 
and  looks. 

Hatt.  Aye,  aye  :  because  your  people  think  she  is  hand 
and  glove  with  old  Satan. 


Scene  V.]  GUY    MAKx-ERiN©.  45 

Seb.  And  what  is  your  purpose,  Captain  Hatteraick  I 
I  think  1  have  a  good  right  to  know  it. 

Hatt.    What  right  ] 

Seb.  Why,  before  a  man  slips  his  neck  .within  the  com- 
pass of  a  halter,  1  think  he  may  be  allowed  to  ask  a  civil 
question,  Why  1 

Hatt.  Well  then,  you  suspicious  hound,  if  thou  wert  at 
the  top  of  that  cliff,  what  large  house  would  you  see  ? 

Seb.  Ellangowan  Castle,  to  be  sure.     What  of  that  1 

Bait.  And  to  whom  does  Ellangowan  Castle  belong? 

Seb.  Why,  they  say  it  belongs  to  your  old  acquaintance, 
Gilbert  Glossin  ! 

Hatt.  It  does  ;  but  if  this  lad,  this  Brown,  as  they  call 
him,  this  heir-male,  were  safe  under  hatches  yonder,  in 
in  my  lugger,  ready  to  be  produced  with  the  documents 
which  I  can  give  him,  whose  would  the  estate  be  then,  eh1? 

Seb.  I  begin  to  see  your  drift,  captain. 

Hatt.  Why  mine,  man,  and  thine  ;  and  all  who  hold 
the  secret,  to  threaten  Glossin  w;th.  He  shall  be  our 
factor  only,  and  draw  the  rents  for  us  ;  the  castle's  our 
own  to  revel  in,  and  he  shall  not  dare  to  say  us  nay  !  So 
set  your  foot  to  mine,  lads,  and  we  secure  the  younker  in 
a  moment,  and  keep  him  like  a  bagged  fox,  to  be  turned 
out  as  we  see  cause. 

Seb.  But  you  had  better  wait  for  Gabriel,  and  his  fel- 
lows. Young  Bertram's  a  powerful  man  ;  if  he  resists, 
and — 

Hatt.  And  is  killed,  you  mean  ;  why  then,  we  must 
keep  the  secret,  and  make  that  scoundrel  Glossin  believe 
him  still  alive.  But  zounds  !  have  done  with  your  buts 
and  ands.  Here  they  come.  Stand  back,  lads,  behind 
the  cliff.  [They conceal  themselves  r.  h.  w.  e. 

Enter  Bertram  and  Dandie,  preceded  by  Franco,  down 
the  winding  path  of  an  opposite  cliff,  l.  h. 

Din.  [On  the  cliff.]  I  tell  you,  my  cock  sparrow,  I  have 
had  a  special  notion  this  some  time  past,  that  you  are 
leading  us  out  of  the  road  to  Kippletringan  !  and  if  you 
are,  my  chicken,  I'll  think  no  more  of  ringing  your  neck 
round,  than  that  of  a  moor-fowl  pout ! 

[Dinmont  by  this  time  is  down  in  front,  and  Franco  anx- 
iously looking  off,  r.] 


46  GUV    MANNKRING.  [ACT  II' 

What  ails  ye  now,  you  devil's  bird,  that  you  stand 
staring  down  the  glen  ?     I  have  not  the  truth  out  of  you  ! 

[Shakes  him. 

Franco.  I  only  thought,  perhaps,  the  gentleman  might 
like  to  see  the  rocks  ;  many  southern  gentlemen  come  to 
see  this  glen  :  it's  famous  ! 

Fin.  Rocks  and  glens  !  when  we  want  to  get  to  a  town 
and  our  beds!     Come,  come,  where's  the  way  next? 

Franco.  [Affecting  great  fear.]  You  terrify  me  so,  I 
don't  know. 

Din.   If  I  take  you  in  hand,  young  one — 

Ber.  O,  let  him  alone  ;  you  frighten  him ;  he  is  but  a 
boy! 

Din.  A  boy  !  there's  as  much  mischief  in  the  devil's 
little  finger,  they  say,  as  there  is  in  all  his  body  ;  he's 
hatching  a  lie  at  this  moment. 

Franco.  [Aside.]  I  see  'em ;  dear  sir,  if  you  heard  the 
curious  echo  that  is  bere,  you  would  not  be  angry. 

Ber.  Echo!   What  echo,  my  little  lad'? 

Franco.  You  shall  hear. 

[Seems  pleased,  blows  a  whistle,  and  runs  off,  r.] 

[Hatteraick  and  his  sailors  rush  forward,  from*,  h. 
u.  e. — Gabriel  enters,  from  r.  h.  s.  e.  with  two 
or  three  Gipsey  men. — Just  as  they  are  going  to 
fall  on,  Meg  Merrilies  suddenly  appears  upon  an 
eminence,  w.  e.  l.  h.  between  the  parties,  and  waves 
off  the   Gipsies,   icho  shrink  back  at  her  signal. 

Meg.  Gipsies,  strike  not,  at  your  peril!  Children,  obey 
me,  and  depart.  ~- — 

Hatt.  Witch!  fiend!  hag!  Cowards,  will  ye  desert 
me  at  a  woman's  bidding?  Then  we  must  do  it  ourselves. 
At  'em,  lads. 

[A  violent  scuffle,  in  which  the  sailors  are  worsted  and 
driven  off,  r.  h.  u.  e. — Hatteraick  is  knocked  down 
and  made  prisoner. — Meg  disappears,  W.  e    l.  h.] 

Din.  Well,  the  devil  such  sport  as  this,  captain,  I 
never  saw.      How  that  fellow  fought. 

Bert.  But  what  shall  we  do  with  our  prisoner?  he 
seems  resolved  not  to  walk. 


SCEME  V.]  GUY    MANiStaiNG.  47 

Din.  I  cannot  blame  him,— it's  *  rough  road  to  the 
gallows!— [To  Hatteraick.\— Come,  lad,  will  ye  get  up 
and  walk,  or  shall  I  carry  you  on  my  shoulders,  as  if  you 
were  a  sheep  ? 

[Bertram  assists  Dandie   to   lift  up   Hatteraick,  whose 

arms  they  bind. — He   looks    dogged   and   stern ,  but 

makes  no  resistance.} 

Ber.  Now,   sir,  be  pleased   to    use   your  legs.     No? 

motionless   and    silent  ?     We'll  find  a  way  to  make   you 

march. 

["  Bagpipes,    l.    u.    e. — A   march   heard  behind   the 
scenes.] 

"  Din.  And  as  good  luck  would  have  it,  yonder  comes 
"  the  Highland  party  I  saw  at  the  fair  yesterday,  and  a 
"  troop  of  the  village  lads  and  lasses  following  the  merry 
"  bagpipes.  'Gad,  we'll  have  enough  to  carry  you  now, 
<;  lad,  gaily  and  lightly ;  and  it's  my  old  acquaintance, 
•'  Serjeant  M'Crae,  with  them  too. 

"  The  party  march  on  the  stage,  l. 

"  How  is  all  with  you,  serjeant?  and  how  came  you  in 
"  this  queer  out-o'-the-way  place  ? 

"  Scrj.  Why,  we're  order'd  here,  to  look  out  for  some 
'*  smugglers  and  banditti. 

"  Din.  We  have  been  before-hand  with  you,  man  : 
"  fought  them,  beat  them,  and  made  a  prisoner  !  And 
"you  must  help  us  to  take  him  to  the  next  justice's, 
"  Gibbie  Glossin's,  at  Ellangowan. 

"  Serj.  With  all  my  heart.     Take  him  away,  lads. 

[''Exeunt  two  soldiers  carrying  Dirk,  l.  s.  e 

"  But  I  must  first  refresh  my  party. 
"  Din.  And  what  will  refresh  them  1 
"  Serj.  A  dram. 
11  Din.  And  what  more  ? 
"  Serj.  A  song. 
"  Din.  And  what  more  % 
Ci  Serj.  A  dance. 

"  Din.  Bravo,  serjeant !  you  keep  a  right  Highland 
"  heart  still. 


48  GUY    BANNERING.  [Act  III. 

SONG  and  CHORUS. 

"  Now  fill  the  glass,  and  let  it  pass 

"  From  haud  to  hand  wi'  glee,  man  ; 
"  The  faint  are  bold,  and  young  the  old, 
'•  When  whiskey  fires  their  ee\  man. 
"  The  kelted  lads  frae  Scottish  hills, 
"  When  taking  aff  their  native  gills, 
"  Find  every  norve  wi'  courage  fills; 
"  A  dauntless  band, 
"  Like  rocks  they  stand, 
"  And  wield  the  brand 
'*  Wi'  deadly  hand, 
"  Till  foes  all  fall  or  flee,  man. 

"  Let  pipers  chant  a  rattling  rant, 

"  And  lasses  join  the  dance,  man, 
"  Wi'  music-craft  and  whiskey  dt.ft, 
"  Our  pulses  wildly  prance,  man. 
"  Then  lads  gae  mad  from  head  to  heel, 
"  Strike  hands,  and  then  strike  up  a  reel, 
"  And  in  the  air  they  glance  and  wheel, 
"  They  set  aud  shout, 
"  Aud  in  and  out, 
"  They  cross  about, 
"  Till  all  the  rout 
"Are  lost  in  pleasure's  trance,  man, 

[They  dance  a  Scotch  dance.] 


ACT    III  . 

Scene    I. Ellangowan. The     Sea-shore,    with    the 

Castle  on  the  rocks. 

Enter  Meg,  l. 

Meg.  From  one  peril  I  have  preserved  young  Bertram  ! 
his  greatest  and  his  last  is  still  to  come.  From  that  too 
will  I  protect  him ;  for  I  was  born  to  raise  the  house  of 
Ellangowan  from  its  ruins. 

Enter  Sebastian,  r. 
Now,  Sebastian,  thy  tidings  1 

Seb.  Dirk  Hatteraick  has  sent  his  orders  by  me,  for 
our  crew  to  meet  him  instantly  at  the  old  tower  of  Dern- 
cleugh. 

Meg.  Hatteraick  !  Why,  was  he  not  secured,  and  taken 
to  Dinmont  and  the  youth  to  Glossin's  ?  Is  he  not  in  the 
hands  of  justice  ? 


Scr-NE  I.]  GUY    MAN 

HINO.  49 

«Sei.  He  was ;  but  he  has  slipt  thk 
without  much  difficulty  :  for  they  were^h  its  finders    and 
purpose,  "ed  to   him  on 

Meg.  What  meanest  thou  1 

Seb.  Why,  that  his  old  friend  Justice  Glossin  v 
that  he  should   effect  his  escape   from    the    Castle-iVe  j 
where  he  was  confined  ;   and  the  friendly   smuggler    u. 
lawyer  meet  to-night  in  the  cavern  by  Derncleugh  Tower, 
where  we  are  to  assist  them  in  making  sure  (as    they  call 
it)  of  that  younker  of  Ellangowan,  whom  Glossin  is    to 
separate  from  his  sturdy   companion,    and  send    over  the 
heath  alone. 

Meg  I  understand  it, — his  death  is  purpos'd ;  and 
they  have  chosen  the  scene  of  one  murder  to  commit 
another.  Right !  The  blood  spilt  on  that  spot,  has  Ion  a- 
cried  for  vengeance,  and  it  shall  fall  upon  them.  Sebas- 
tian, speed  to  Dinmont  and  the  youth  :  tell  them  not  to 
separate  for  their  lives, — guide  them  to  the  glen  near 
the  tower  ;  there  let  them  wait  till  Glossin  and  Hatter- 
aick  meet  in  the  cavern,  and  I  will  join  them.  Away,  and 
do  my  bidding! — [Exit  Sebastian,  r.  h.] — Now  to  send  to 
Mannering, — I  must  remain  on  the  watch  myself: — 
Gabriel  I  dare  not  trust.  Ha  !  who  comes  now  ?  The 
girl  herself,  and  Abel  Sampson,  Henry  Bertram's  ancient 
tutor !   It  shall  be  so —  [Retires,  r. 

Enter  Julia  and  Lucy,  l.  h. 

Julia.  Upon  nay  word,  my  dear  Lucy,  this  Scotland  of 
your's  is  the  most  gallant  country  in  the  world.  There's 
even  Mr.  Sampson  yonder,  turned  as  arrand  a  coxcomb 
as  my  brother,  in  our  service.  How  delightful  the  old 
gentleman  does  look  in  his  new  suit !  What  wonders 
will  you  work  next  1  An  old,  abstracted  philosopher, 
dangling  after  us,  a  beau -companion  ;  and  a  proud,  stern, 
stoical  soldier,  melted  down  into  your  forlorn  true  lover. 

Lucy.  Why  will  you  thus  continue  to  persecute  me 
with  speeches,  which  gratitude  and  delicacy,  and  above 
all,  the  remembrance  of  my  deep  and  recent  afflictions, 
should  forbid  me  listening  to. 

Julia.  By  no  means,  my  dear  ;  gratitude  and  delicacy, 
and  every  thing  in  the  world,  should  bid    you  listen   to  a 


/ 


50 


^NKRING.  [Act    III. 


wou  from  good  authority)  is  over 
man,  who  (I  can  te^  witn  you>  What  say  you,  dearest 
head  and  ears  lg  mv  sister  1 

Lucy,  will  yjulia  !   What   can, — what    ought  I  to  say  1 
Lucy.  fentreatjou!  My  heart  is  too  full :  Let  your's 
Sparer?  me. 

sPe  AIR. — Miss  Bertram. 

Oh !  blame  me  not,  that  such  high  worth 

Hath  rais'd  of  love  the  gentle  flame ; 
Yet,  as  I  own  it — quicker  throbs 

The  timid,  trembling  pulse  of  shame. 
When  pity  dries  the  falling  tear, 

Love,  unperceiv'd,  will  venture  in  ; 
And  kindness  to  a  wounded  heart, 

Is  sure  that  wounded  heart  to  win. 

My  fault'ring  tongue,  my  downcast  eyes, 

Reveal  my  bosom  thoughts  too  plain ; 
But  where  love  wore  a  form  so  good, 

Ah !  tell  me,  could  it  plead  in  vain  ? 
This  heart  without  a  resting  place, 

Was  like  the  waud'ring  weary  dove, 
Return'd  from  sorrow's  storms,  to  seek 

A  shelter  in  the  ark  of  love. 

Julia.  Oh,  here  comes  Mr.  Sampson. 

Lucy.  Pray  endeavour  to  divert  the  poor  man's  atten- 
tion, for  his  change  of  dress  quite  confuses  him.  Haw- 
could  you  play  such  a  roguish  trick  upon  the  good  absent 
soul,  as  to  make  the  servant  put  new  clothes  in  his  room, 
in  the  place  of  his  old  ones  ] 

Enter  Sampson,  l.  looking  at  his  clothes. 

Samp.  Truly,  my  outward  man  doth  somewhat  embar- 
rass my  sensations  of  identity.  My  vestments  are  reno- 
vated miraculously. 

Julia.  Mr.  Sampson,  will  you  favor  ns  with    your  arm  ? 

Samp.  [Looks  at  her  a  moment,  then  returns  to  his 
clothes.]  Of  a  verity,  these  sleeves  are  regenerated,  so  are 
the  knees  of  my  breeches,  or  subligaculi,  as  the  an- 
cients denominated  them. 

Lucy.  Come,  Mr.  Sampson,  we  wait  for  you. 

Samp.  Honour'd  young  lady,  I — Where  can  the  patch 
and  darning  be  removed  unto? 

Lucy.  What's  the  matter,  Sir  ? 


ScexeL]  GUY    MA.VERlNGt  51 

Samp.    I  know  not,   I  am  nubilt-         •,     ,  .-,        j& 
,c  w      jl  r  vi         ^  s  5    doubtless   the  air 

of  Woodburne  is  favorable  unto  wearL^  ,     ?       , 

surface  of  my  garments  is  as  fresh  as  whei.?5     ,.   '   „ «, 
^   4  i      at-         i        i      u  'first  put  them 

on,  ten  years   ago!      Miraculous!      Jdem   et  Ar    r,      p. 

digious  !       But    I   crave  forgiveness,    young    ]&»• ' 

will  proceed.     [As  they  are  going  Meg  stops  them.'  ' 

Meg.     Stop  !    I  command  ye  ! 

Samp.   Avoid  thee  !  [Starts  and  runs  hack. 

Julia.  What  a  frightful  creature  !  here  !  here.  Sir  ! 
[Holding  her  purse  to  Sampson.]  Give  her  something,  and 
bid  her  go. 

Meg.   [  want  not  your  trash. 

Lucy.  She's  mad  ! 

Meg.  No ;  I  am  not  mad.  I've  been  imprisoned  for 
mad, — scourged  for  mad, — banished  for  mad ;  but  mad  I 
am  not. 

Lucy.  For  mercy's  sake,  good  woman,  what  is  it  you 
want? 

Meg.  Go  hence,  Lucy  Bertram,  and  Julia  Mannering; 
there's  no  harm  meant  you,  and,  may  be,  much  good  at 
hand.     Hence  !  'tis  Abel  Sampson,  I  want. 

Samp.  [Aside.]  'Tis  Meg  Merrilies,  renowned  for  her 
sorceries  !  I  hav'nt  seen  her  for  many  a  year.  My  blood 
curdles  to  hear  her  !  Young  ladies,  depart  and  fear  not. 
I  am  somewhat  tremulous,  butl  am  vigorous.  Lo  !  I  will 
resist.  [Edges  round  between  the  ladies  and  Meg,  to  cover 
their  retreat; — they  go  off,  l. — Points  his  long  cane  at 
her.]  I  am  perturbed  at  thy  words.  Woman,  I  conjure 
thee  !  [She  advances.]  Nay  then,  will  I  flee  inconti- 
nently. 

Meg.  Halt !  and  stand  fast,  or  ye  shall  rue  the  day,  while 
a  limb  of  you  hangs  together  ! 

Samp.  Conjuro  te,  nequissima,  et  scelestissima  ! 

Meg.  What  gibberish  is  that  1  Go  from  me  to  Colonel 
Mannering. 

Samp,  I  am  fugacious.  [He  attempts  to  fly,  she  makes 
*at  him. 

Meg.  Stay.,  thou  tremblest !  drink  of  this.  [Offers  a 
Hash. 

Samp.  T.  am  not  athirst.  most  execrable, — I  mean,  ex- 
cellent— 


52  GU^%<NNERING.  [Act  III- 

Meg.  Drink  !   and  put  some  heart  in  you,  or  I  will — 

Sa?np.  Lo  !   I  obey  !  [Drinks. 

Meg.  Can  you1'  learning  tell  you  what  that  is  ] 

Sa?np.  Praised  be  thy  bounty,  brandy. 

Meg.  Will  you  remember  my  errand  now  ] 

Sa?np.  I  will,  most  pernicious  ;  that  is,  pertinaciously. 

Meg.  Then  tell  Colonel  Mannering,  if  ever  he  owed  a 
debt  to  the  house  of  Ellangowan,  and  hopes  to  see  it 
prosper,  he  must  come  instantly,  armed,  and  well  attended, 
to  the  glen,  below  the  tower  of  Derncleugh  ;  and  fail  not 
on  his  life  !      You  know  the  spot. 

Sa??ip.  I  do,  where  you  once  dwelt,  most  accursed  ; — 
that  is  most  accurate. 

Meg.  Aye,  Abel  Sampson,  there  blazed  my  hearth  for 
many  a  day  !  and  there,  beneath  the  willow  that  hung  its 
garlands  over  the  brook,  I've  sat  and  sung  to  Harry  Ber- 
tram songs  of  the  old  time.  [Crosses  to  l. 

Samp.  [Aside.}  Witch-rhymes  and  incantations.  I 
would  I  could  abscond. 

Meg.  That  tree  is  wither'd  now,  never  to  be  green 
again  : — and  old  Meg  Merrilies  will  never  sing  blythe 
songs  more.  [Crosses  to  r.]  But  I  charge  you,  Abel  Samp- 
son, when  the  heir  shall  have  his  own, — as  soon  he 
shall — 

Samjy.  Woman  !   What  say'st  thou  1 

Meg.  That  you  tell  him  not  to  forget  Meg  Merrilies, 
but  to  build  up  the  old  walls  in  the  glen  for  her  sake,  and 
let  those  that  live  there  be  too  good  to  fear  the  beings  of 
another  world  ;  for,  if  ever  the  dead  come  back  among 
the  living,  I  will  be  seen  in  that  glen  many  a-night  after 
these  crazed  bones  are  whitened  in  the  mouldering  grave. 

Samp.  Fears  and  perturbations  creep  upon  me  !  but  I 
will  speak  soothingly  unto  her.  [Aside.]  Assuredly,  Mis- 
tress Margaret  Merrilies,  I  will  go  whither  thou  biddest 
me,  and  remember  your  behest ;  but  touching  the  return 
of  little  Harry  Bertram,  I  opine — 

Meg.  I  have  said  it,  old  man  !  ye  shall  see  him  again, 
and  the  best  lord  he  shall  be  that  Ellangowan  has  seen 
these  hundred  years.  But  you're  o'er  long  here. —  To 
Mannering!  Away!  and  bid  him  come  to  that  spot  in- 
stantly, or  the  heir  of  Ellangowan  may  perish  for  ever. 


8ewmt   II.]  GUY    MANh,„ 

Samp.  I  will  hie  me  nimbly,  most  fc^. 
say  fascinating.     Prodigious!  ProdigiX?™"8  J— -I would 
[This  he  ?epeats   as   Meg  motions   Ai^  rodiSious  •' 
stands  looking  after  him,  her  arm  poin€\  L«      She 
reef  ion  he  is  going.  %n  the  di- 

Meg.  Now  then  to  complete  the  work  of  fate  :  th^. 
ment  is  at  hand  when  all  shall  behold,  ^~ 

Bertram's  right,  and  Bertram's  might, 
Meet  on  Ellangowan's  height. 

[Exit,  R. 

Scene  II. — An  apartment  in  Woodburne-house. — Swordsf 
guns,  pistols,  8fc,  over  the  mantlepiece. — Enter  Colonel 
Mannering,  r.  followed  by  Lucy  and  Julia. 

Miss  Man.  Oh,  my  dear  brother  !  you  cannot  think  how 
frighten'd  we  were  !  she  desired  us  to  go  away.  It  was 
Mr.    Sampson  she  said  she  wanted  to  speak  with. 

Miss  M.  I  wish  he  were  returned.  \Samp.  is  heard 
without,  l.  speaking  to  Flora. 

Sa?np.  Avoid  thee  ! — that  is,  where  is  Colonel  Manner- 
ing? 

Flora.  This  way,  Mr.  Sampson  !  follow  me. 

Samp.  Conjuro  te  : — I  mean,  shew  me  to  him. 

Col.  Man.  Here  is  Mr.  Sampson ;  and  now  perhaps, 
we  shall  know  how  to  act. 

Enter  Sampson,  l.  preceded  by  Flora. 

Flora.  Gracious  me,  Mr  Sampson,  what's  the  matter 
with  you  ? 

Samp.  Exorcisote! 

Flora.  Exercise  me  !  What  is't  you  mean,  sir  1  Are 
you  out  of  your  wits  % 

Samp.  Conjuro  te! 

Flora.  Conjure  some  tea  %  You're  bewitched  yourself, 
for  certain. 

i      Samp.  Of  a  surety,  it  is  my  belief — deprecor  ; — this  is, 
I  would  confer  with  the  Colonel  Mannering. 
-<      Flora.  Well,  there  is  the  Colonel,  and  the  young  ladies 
with  him,  Mr.  Sampson.  [Exit  l. 

Col.  Man.  Now,  Mr.  Sampson,  what  is  the  meaning  of 
all  this  alarm  ? 


■ 


54  GUY    MANNERING.  [ACT  III. 

Samp.    Exorciso ! — 

Col.  Man.  How,  sir  1 

Samp.  I  crave  pardon,  honorable  sir;  but  my  wits — . 

Col  Man.  Seem  rather  disorder'd,  I  think ;  but  I  beg 
you  will  arrange  them,  and  explain  your  business. 

Svmp.  I  will :  sed  conjuro  te  ! — I  mean,  I  will  deliver 
my  message. 

CoL  Man.  Your  message  !  from  whom  1 

Samp.  From  Beelzebub,  I  believe. 

Col.   Man.  This  is  an  ill-tim'd  jest,  Mr.  Sampson. 

Samp.  She,  of  whom  I  spake  is  no  jesting  person. 

Col.   Man.   Whom,  whom  did  you  speak  of? 

Samp.  Beelzebub's  mistress,  Meg  Merrilies. 

Lucy.  Good  heaven  !  was  it  she  whom  I  saw  1  Oh,  sir, 
what  said  she  ? 

Samp.  Prodigious  !   I  am  oblivious. 

Col.  Man.  Mr.   Sampson,  how  can  you  trifle  thus  ? 

Samp.  Honored  Colonel,  bear  with  me  a  moment.  The 
witch  has  terrified  me  !  It  was  touching  little  Harry  Ber- 
tram. 

Lucy.  How  !   my  long-lost  brother  1 

Samp.  Yea  !  who,  tho'  of  a  tender  age,  was,  by  a  bless 
ing  on  my  poor  endeavors,  a  prodigy  of  learning. 

Col.  Man.   Well,  sir,  but  what  of  him  ? 

Sa?np.  Of  a  verity,  she  prophesied  his  return. 

Lucy.  Gracious  heaven  ! 

Samp.  And  has  commanded  you,  worthy  Colonel,  to  at- 
tend her  summons,  with  armed  men,  at  her  ancient  domi- 
cile, in  the  glen,  by  Derncleugh  tower. 

Col.  Man.   With  armed  men. 

Samp.  Yea,  and  speedily  ;  lest,  as  she  said,  the  heir  of 
Ellangowan  perisheth  for  ever. 

Col.  Man.  It  shall  be  attended  to  this  moment.  Mr, 
Sampson,  protect  the  ladies  !  arm  yourself,  and  follow. 
Your  presence  may  be  important.  [Exit,  l. 

Samp.  [  Takes  down  a  gun  and  sword  from  the  wall.] 
Young  ladies,  follow  me,  and  fear  not,  Lo !  I  have 
armed  myself,  and  will  smite  lustily  in  the  cause  of  little 
Harry.  [  The  gun  goes  off.]  P-r-o-o-digious  !  [The  ladies 
run  off,  he  after  them,  dragging  the  gun,  and  shouldering 
the  sword  awkwardly.  s 


Scene  III.]  GUY    MANNEriNg.  55 

Scene  III. —  The  cavern  near  Hit  tower  of  Dcrncleugh  ; 
the  broken  and  lofty  entrance  at  the  summit  of  the  stage, 
from  which  descends  a  rugged  path  ;  another  dark  and 
narrow, passage  hewn  in  the  rock  below. — Hatteraick 
is  discovered  walking  up  and  down  in  the  vault  over  the 
embers  of  a  fire,  with  the  gestures  of  one  who  finds  it 
difficult  to  keep  himself  warm. — Enter  Glossin,  cau- 
tiously, from  r.  u.  e.  with  a  dark  lantern. 

Glos.  Hist!  hist! 

Hatt.  Is  it  you  ? 

Glos.  Are  you  in  the  dark,  my  dear  Dirk  ? 

Hatt.  Dark  !  Dark  as  the  devil's  mouth,  and  my  fire  is 
out. 

Glos.  We'll  repair  it  in  a  trice.  [Gathers  up  some  dry 
sticks,  and  repairs  the  fire ;  as  it  breaks  out,  Dirk  warms 
himself  with  eagerness.]  It  is  a  cold  place,  to  be  sure. 

Hatt.  Cold  !  snow-water  and  hail !  It  is  perdition  ! 
And  I  could  only  keep  myself  alive,  by  walking  up  and 
down  this  infernal  hole,  and  thinkng  of  the  merry 
rouses  we  have  had  in  it. 

Glos.  And  shall  again,  boy.  [Produces  a  flask.\  See, 
here's  something  to  warm  yourheart,  as  well  as  your  limbs. 

Hatt.  Give  it  me,  give  it  me.  Ah  !  this  lights  the  fire 
within.  I  have  dreamt  of  nothing  but  that  d — 'd  dead 
fellow,  Kennedy,  ever  since  I've  been  here. 

Glos.  Come,  come,  the  cold's  at  your  heart  still  ;  take 
another  pull.  I  left  that  bull-headed  brute  of  a  farmer, 
refreshing,  as  he  calls  it,  with  the  soldiers,  and  the  young- 
ster crosses  the  heath  alone  ;  so  there's  an  easy  trick  to 
be  won. 

Hatt.  No,  I  rather  fight  for  it.  A  few  good  blows  put 
a  colour  upon  such  a  business  ;  besides,  I  should  like  my 
revenge  on  that  Liddesdale  bully,  for  the  hard  knock  on 
the  head  he  gave  me. 

[Meg  Merrilies  appears  through   the  narrow  entrance,  r. 
attended  by  Bertram  and  Dinmont. 

Meg.  [In  a  deep  whisper  to  Bertram.]  Will  you  believe 
me  now  1  You  shall  hear  them  attest  all  I  have  said  ;  but 
do  not  stir  till  1  give  the  sign.  [  They   retire,  r.   h. 


56  GUY    BTANNESING.  [Act  III. 

Hatt.  [  Who  has  been  warming  himself.]  Is  Sebastian 
true,  think  you  ? 

Glos.   True  as    steel !     I  fear   none  of  them  but  old 

Meg. 

Meg.  \Steps  forward  to  them.}  And  what  d'ye  fear 
from  her  ? 

Glos.  [Aside.]  What  fury  has  brought  this  hag  hither? 
[to  Meg.] — Nay,  nothing,  nothing,  my  good  mother;  I  was 
only  fearing  you  might  not  come  here,  to  see  our  old 
friend  Dirk  Hatteraick  before  he  left  us. 

Meg.  What  brings  him  back  with  the  blood  of  the 
Kennedy  upon  his  hands  1 

Hatt.  It  has  dried  up,  you  hag  ;  it  has  dried  up  twenty 
years  ago. 

Meg.  It  has  not !  It  cries  night  and  day,  from  the  bot 
torn  of  this  dungeon,  to  the  blue  arch  of  heaven  ;  and  nev- 
er so  loudly  as  at  this  moment !  and  yet  you  proceed,  as 
if  your  hands  were  whiter  than  the  lily. 

Hatt.  Peace,  you  foul  witch  !   or  I'll  make  you  quiet. 

Glos.  No  violence,  no  violence  against  honest  Meg!  1 
will  show  her  such  good  reasons  for  what  we  have  furth 
er  to  do.     You  know  our  purpose,  I  suppose  1 

Meg.  Yes!  to  murder  an  unoffending  youth,  the  heir  of 
Ellangowan.  And  you,  you  treacherous  cur,  that  bit  the 
charitable  hand  that  fed  you  !  will  you  again  be  helping 
to  kidnap  your  master's  son?  Beware  !  I  always  told  ye 
evil  would  come  on  ye,  and  in  this  very  cave. 

Glos  Hark  ye,  Meg,  we  must  speak  plain  to  you !  My 
friend  Dirk  Hatteraick  and  I  have  made  up  our  minds 
about  this  youngster,  and  it  signifies  nothing  talking,  un- 
less you  have  a  mind  to  shave  his  fate.  You  were  as  deep 
as  we  in  the  whole  business. 

Meg.  'Tis  false  !  you  forced  me  to  consent  that  you 
should  hurry  him  away,  kidnap  him,  plunder  him  ;  but  to 
murder  him  was  your  own  device  !  Your's  !  And  it  has 
thriven  with  you  well. 

Hatt.  The  old  hag  has  croaked  nothing  but  evil  bodings 
these  twenty  years;  she  has  been  a  rock-a-head  to  me  all 
my  life. 

Meg.  I,  a  rock-a-head !  The  gallows  is  your  rock-a- 
head. 


Scene  III.]  GUY    MANNERING.  57 

Halt.  Gallows !  ye  hag  of  Satan,  the  hemp  is  not 
sown  that  shall  hang  me. 

Meg.  It  is  sown,  and  it  is  grown,  and  hackled  and 
twisted.  Did  I  not  tell  you  that  the  boy  would  return  in 
spite  of  you  1  Did  I  not  say,  the  old  fire  would  burn 
down  to  a  spark,  and  then  blaze  up  again. 

[Here  the  party  appears  on  the  watch.] 
Halt.  You  did  ;  but   all  is   lost,  unless  he's    now  made 
sure.     Ask  Glossin  else. 

Meg.  I  do,  and  in  the  name  of  heaven,  demand  if  he 
will  yet  forego  his  foul  design  against  his  master's  son. 

Glos.  What!  and  give  up  all  to  this  Brown,  or  Ber- 
tram ;   this  infernal  heir  male,  that's  come  back  ?   never! 

Meg.  Bear  witness,  heaven  and  earth !  They  have 
confessed  the  past  deed,  and  proclaimed  their  present 
purpose. 

[She  throws  a  little  flax,  dipt  in  spirits  of  wine,  on  the 

fire,  zvhich  blazes  up  to    the    roof.       At  this  signal, 

Bertram    rushes    upon  Glossin — Dinmont    upon 

Hatteraick,  and   masters  his  sword. — Hatteraick 

suddenly  fires  a  pistol  at  Meg,  who  falls  with  a  loud 

scream,  and  rushing  tip  to  the  entrance  of  the  Cavern, 

he  is  met  by  Mannering   and  soldiers,  who  instantly 

secure  him  and  Glossin.  Servants  follow  with  lights. 

Ccl  Man.  Carry  off  these    villians  ; — we    have    heard 

their  own  tongues  seal  their  guilt.     Justice  shall   do   the 

rest.  [Exeunt  soldiers  with  prisoners,  w.  e.  l. 

And  look  to  this  unfortunate  woman.     Hasten,  some  one, 

for  proper  assistance. 

Meg.  Heed  me  not — I  knew  it  would  be  this  way,  and 
it  has  ended  as  it  ought — bear  me  up — let  me  but  see  my 
master's  son  ;  let  me  but  behold  Henry  Bertram,  and  bear 
witness  to  him,  and  the  gipsey  vagrant  has  nothing  more 
to  do  with  life, 

Samp,  [without,  w.  e.  l.J   This    way,   Miss    Lucy,  this 
way.      Where,  where  is  little    Harry  Bertram  1     I  must 
behold  the  infant,  the  dear  child. 
[He  rushes  on  impatiently,  followed  by   Miss  Bertram  and 
Miss  Mannering,  and    stands  opposite  to  Bertram,  gaz- 
ing on  him — villagers  and  country  people  follow  him  and 
range  at  back. 


58  GUY    MANNERING.  [Act  III 

Samp.  Beatissime  !   it  is  his   father  alive  !   it  is    indeed 
Harry,  little  Harry  Bertram! — look  at  me,  my  child!   do 
you  not  remember  me,  Abel  Sampson? 

Ber.  Alight  breaks  in  upon  me — yes,  that  was  indeed 
my  name,  and  that — that  is  the  voice  and  figure  of  my 
kind  old  master. 

Sam]).  Miss  Lucy  Bertram,  look  !  lo  !  behold  ! — is  he 
not  your  father's  living  image  1  embrace  him,  and  let  fall 
your  tears  upon  a  brother's  cheek. 

Miss  B.  My  brother  !  my  long  lost  brother  restored  to 
his  rights!   welcome,  oh,  welcome  to  a  sister's  love  ! 

Meg.  [Suddenly  raising  herself.]  Hear  ye  that  1  he's 
owned  ! — there's  a  living  witness,  and  here,  here  is  one, 
who  will  soon  speak  no  more.  Hear  her  last  words  !  there 
stands  Harry  Bertram  :  shout,  shout,  and  acknowledge  him 
lord  of  EUangowan  !  [the  people  shout.]  My  ears  grow 
dull — stand  from  the  light,  and  let  me  gaze  upon  him  ; — 
no,  the  darkness  is  in  my  own  eyes. 

[Sinks  into  the  arms  of  Bertram  und  Col.  Mannering.'] 

CoL  Come  hither,  some  of  you — bear  her  to  Wood- 
burne  house — let  all  care  be  taken  of  her  support,  and 
bear  her  gently  away,  she  may  yet  recover. — [Meg  is 
borne  away  r.]  And  now,  Mr.  Bertram,  I  hope  no  misun- 
derstanding will  prevent  your  accepting  what  I  most 
sincerely  offer,"  my  friendship  and  congratulations,  upon 
your  restoration  to  birth  and  fortune. 

Ber.  Colonel  Mannering,  I  accept  them  most  gladly; 
and  if  1  am  not  deceived,  the  wishes  of  both  our  hearts 
may  make  us  not  only  friends  but  brothers.  What  say 
you,  sister,  am  I  right  ? 

Miss  M.  Oh  !  she  can't  speak,  so  I  will.  Give  Miss 
Bertram  your  arm,  brother,  and  here,  Henry,  is  mine  ;  and 
now  let  us  go  in  before  we  talk  more  on  the  subject. 

Ber.  My  hearty  friend  and  brave  defender,  come  ;  we 
cannot  part  with  you  yet. 

Din.  I  beg  pardon  of  your  honor  and  these  young 
ladies,  but  I  haven't  got  my  Sunday's  suit  on,  and  this 
coat  is  rather  the  worse  of  the  two  or  three  tussles  we 
have  had  to-day. 


■ 


Scene  III.] 


GUY    MAaNERiNG. 


59 


Bert.  And  can  that  be  an  objection,  to  him  in  whose 
cause  it  suffered  1  You  may  thank  Mr.  Dinmont's 
courage,  ladies,  for  my  life  and  safety. 

Miss.  B.  Thank  him  !  aye,  that  we  do,  and  bless  him 
for  it. 

Din.  Eh !  and  heaven  bless  you,  my  bonny  lass,  wi'  all 
my  heart.  [Kisses  Miss  Bertram,  and  alarmed  at  his 
boldness,  runs  back  confused. 

Samp.  Prodigious  !  ; 

Din.  Lord's  sake,  forgive  me  !   I  ask  your  pardon,  I  am 

sure — I  forgot    but   ye'd    been  a  bairn    of  my  own — the 

captain,  here's  so  homely  like  !  he  just  makes  one  forget 

one's  self — and  I'm  so  overjoyed  like,  at  his  good  fortune — 

Col.  So  are  we  all,  and  if  the  heir   of  Ellangowan  be 

welcomed  here  too,  our  joy  will  be — 

Samp.  Prodigious. 

FINALE  AND  CHORUS. 

Miss  M.         Oh  !  let  your  hands  assure  the  youth 

There's  nothing  now  to  fear, 
For  his  return  is  little  worth, 

Unless  he's  welcomed  here. 
For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house, 

There's  nae  luck  ava', 
There's  little  pleasure  in  this  house, 

When  your  smiles  are  awa.' 

Chorus.  For  there's  nae  luck,  &c. 

Bertram.         The  heir  of  Ellangowan's  fate 
Depends  upon  this  night, 
If  you  deny  him  your  support, 
He's  neither  right  nor  might, 

Chorus.  For  there's  nae  luck,  &c. 

Miss  B.         Then  welcome  home  the  rightful  heir, 
To  native  halls  and  lands, 
There's  right  and  might,  and  music,  too. 
In  your  approving  hands. 
For  there's  nae  luck,  &c. 


Cho.us 
DISPOSITION 

Villagers. 


For  there's  nae  luck,  &c. 
OF    THE     CHARACTERS    AT 


CHARACTERS 
CURTAIN. 


THE     FALL    OF    THE 


«.] 


Dikmont.     Dominie. 


Lucy.  B.    Colonel  Man.    Julia  Man. 
THE   END. 


Villagers. 
Henry  B. 


IE  AMERICAN  EDITION. 

I  OF 

l's  Illustrations  of  Shakspeare, 

<oall  the  beauty  of  the  first  proofs,  as  certified  to  by  200  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished men  in  New- York,  (see  Prospectus  of  36  pages,  description  of  the  work,  to 
be  had  of  the  Proprietor  or  his  agentg  in  every  city  of  the  Union,  gratis,)  among  whom 
are  Washington  Irving,  Theo.  Frelinghuyson,  N.  P.  Willis,  Geo.  P.  Morris,  J.  Watson 
Webb,  M.  M.  Noah,  Horace  Greely,  Wm.T.  Porter,  Wm.  C  Bryant,  Henry  Brevoort, 
John  Van  Buren,  Hugh  Maxwell,  Theo.  Sedgwick,  Rev.  Drs.  Berrian,  Wainwright, 
Tyng,  and  Potts  ;  ex-Mayors  Clark,  Brady,  Mickle,  and  Havemeyer  ;  Harper  &  Bro- 
thers, Wm.  Appleton  <fe  Co  ,  John  Wiley,  Geo.  P.  Putnam,  Rawdon,  Wright  <fc  Hatch, 
Danfonh,  Hufty  &  Co.,  G.  &  W.  Endicott,  &c,  <tc 

Bovdell's  Illustrations  of  Shakspeare  was  the  most  magnificent  and  ex- 
pensive work  ever  published,  in  any  age  or  country,  which  cost  £1,000,000,  and  sunk 
the  proprietor  into  irretrievable  ruin.  It  was  got  up  under  the  patronage  of  the  King 
and  nobility  and  gentry  of  England.  The  original  paintings  in  the  Shakspeare  gal- 
lery, were  all  executed  by  the  first  artists,  of  the  size  of  life.  Then  they  were  engrav- 
ed in  the  most  elaborate  and  expensive  manner.  To  give  some  idea  of  the  immense 
artistic  labor  bestowed  on  the  plates  alone,  it  has  been  estimated  by  engravers  to  be  at 
least  equal  to  400  years  of  constant  application  for  one  engraver. 

Upwards  of  sixty  of  the  most  distinguished  British  artists,  such  as  Sir  Joshua  Rey- 
nolds, Sir  Benjamin  West,  Sir  William  Beechy,  Fuseli,  Romney,  Northcote,  Westall, 
Smirke.  Opie,  Sharpe.  Bartolozzi,  Earlom,  Thew,  <kc,  were  employed  upwards  of 
twenty  years  in  producing  the  work 

Several  hundred  of  the  mosi  distinguished  artists,  engravers,  connoisseurs,  and  lit- 
erary men  in  New  York  have  critically  examined  the  original  plates,  and  compared 
the  proofs  taken  from  the  restored  plates,  wii.h  an  original  proof  copy,  and  proofs  be- 
fore ihe  letter,  siruck  by  Boydell  himself,  side  by  sfde,  and  have  unanimously  pro- 
nounced  the  restoration  perfect. 

The  original  copper  plates,  (weighing  two  tons,)  were  brought  to  New- York  in 
1842.  Twelve  engravers  are  constantly  employed  in  restoring  them.  Forty  plates 
are  now  published. 

Boydeli's  proof  jyice  was  two  guineas  per  plate,  and  the  subscription  list  one 
guinea.  The  American  edition  is  printed  on  the  best  linen  paper  24  by  30  inches,  150 
lbs.  to  the  ream,  with  a  splendid  original  hot  letter-piess  description  and  key,  not  in 
the  old  work,  of  the  same  size  as  the  plates. 

N.  B.  No  subscriptions  will  be  received  after  a  limited  time,  as  the  proprietor  is 
making  arrangements  to  send  the  plates  back  to  London,  as  fast  as  they  are  restored, 
and  his  subscription  list  filled. 

AGENTS. 


Boston — Redding  &  Co.,  No.  8  State  st. 
Worcester — Edward  Livermore. 
Providence — Rowe  &  Co. 
Springfield— W.  B.  Brockett. 
Hartford—  Brown  «k  Parsons,  182  Main-st 
New-Haven—  Durie  «fc  I'eck,  70  Chapel  st 
Albany— W.  C.  Little  &  Co.,  53  State  st. 
Utica—W.  W.  Backus,  155  Genesee-st. 
Rochester— E.  Scrantom,  25  Buffalost. 

11  D.  M.  Dewey,  Arcade. 

Batavia — Wm.  Seaver  <fc  Son. 
Buffalo— G.  H.  Derby  &  Co.,  164  Main  st. 
Cleveland— Son.  Sargent.  Superior  Lane. 
Pittsburgh— John  D.  Davis. 
Cincinnati— Post  <fc  Co. 


Louisville— Maxwell  &  Co.,  451  Main-st 
St.  Louis — Meredeth  Ogden. 
Newark — J   L.  Agens,  I  Commerce-sl 
Philadelphia — Getz  <fc  Buck. 
Baltimore — Wm.  Taylor  &Co. 
Washington — Taylor  &  Maury. 
Richmond — A.  Morris. 
Charleston— Wm.  R.  Babcock     ■ 
New  Orleans— Daniel  Rice. 
Savannah— W.  T.  Williams. 
Mobile— J.  K.  Randall. 
Tuscaloosa— F.  A.  P.  Barnard. 
Ohio,  North  of  the  Cumberland  Roaa  - 

Bragg  &  Co..  Elvria. 
Detroit— C.  Morse  <fe  Son. 


S.  SPOONER,  Publisher,  106  Liberty-st.  N.  Y. 


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